


no church in the wild

by oxymoronic



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Armitage Hux Has Feelings, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Order Politics (Star Wars), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Not Canon Compliant - Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Power Dynamics, Redemption, Torture, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 56,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23687773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronic/pseuds/oxymoronic
Summary: Fresh from their supposed victory on Crait, Hux attends a conference of First Order generals at the headquarters on Naboo. Adjusting to the prospect of the ever-volatile Kylo Ren as Supreme Leader swiftly proves to be the least of his problems.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren
Comments: 52
Kudos: 193





	1. human beings in a mob

**Author's Note:**

> wolfhalls is an actual angel and there wouldn't be a single word of this written without her support. thank you so much for enduring all my WIP drafts and my existential angst about writing Hux while keeping him in character.
> 
>  **re the content warnings:** they're only an element for part two, and i'll give further warnings in the notes there. if you have any questions, please do [drop me an ask](https://alichay.tumblr.com/ask) on Tumblr.

On the ice-white plains of Crait the air tastes of salt. Hux remembers the bitterness of it against his tongue as he stood on the bridge of the walker and watched the waves of his men pour from above, the blast door cracked open by their cannon in one huge, jagged seam. It was something of a perfunctory victory.

“Take me back to the ship,” he had said, and rode alone in the poky little shuttle back up to the torn halls of the _Supremacy_ squatting above. She had been a beautiful ship, sleek and gracious and powerful, and under his command she had been all but demolished. Snoke lay dead in his throne room, bisected by a mere child. And he had fired his weapon but once before the wretched scum of the galaxy had torn it apart beneath him too.

Hux has driven the Resistance out of their measly home and obliterated their fleet. He has executed their leaders and hunted down the rest like dogs, forced them to take a stand in this backwater hell of a place, screaming out for help into the oncoming dark. And no one, not a single lost soul, had come to their call.

It still tastes like failure. His ship is in tatters and his weapon is gone. But he has at least had something adjacent to revenge.

It’s a handful of hours before Ren’s attention turns skywards. Hux had attempted to rest; but he could hear the _Supremacy_ ’s crying shrieks even from his quarters, lying there in the preternatural gloom and listening to her off-kilter heartbeat like the death throes of a giant beast. Hux had risen and come to stand on the bridge instead, because here at least the engineers and navigators share his growing grief.

Hux drops to one knee the moment Ren steps through the blast doors. The men around him follow suit in an instant muffled patter of thuds. His bowed head gives him clear sight of the rim of Ren’s cloak, smeared thick with the white dust of the planet below. “Up,” Ren says, and Hux rises. “Report.”

On his feet Hux gets his first real look at Ren, and what he sees makes his heart swell with dread. Between his black eyes and his trembling hands he looks like a bomb moments from detonation. “She’s holding, barely,” Hux says. “Around six thousand dead.”

His jaw visibly clenches. “They got away,” he mutters.

Hux hesitates. His side still aches, the agony of the fracture twinned with the humiliation of having been flung across the little walker not so long ago. He’s loathe to repeat the experience in front of so many of his subordinates. “My lord,” he says slowly, “I’m not sure it matters.”

Ren’s forehead creases into a scowl like thunder. “What?”

“They put out a distress signal during the battle,” Hux says. “No one came. Their fleet is gone, their leaders are dead. They have nothing left.”

Ren’s clearly inclined to disagree; his lip curls into a sneer. “I want the girl,” he says. “I want the girl, and I want the _Falcon_.”

Hux dips his head. “That may be so, my lord,” he says. “But the _Supremacy_ is in no state to pursue. Perhaps – ”

Ren takes a swift step forward. The air around them crackles, thick with the smell of copper and ozone, and Hux becomes aware of a growing pressure on his throat. “Is that an order, General?” he snarls.

Hux instantly loses his temper. “Don’t be absurd,” he snaps back. “If you wish to hunt down that horrid little ship then you’re absolutely welcome to. But not with this vessel.” There’s a long, awful pause. At the end of it, Hux clears his throat, glares at the gawping onlookers, and adds a slightly beleaguered, “My lord.”

“Well, General,” Ren says, in time. His voice is clear and cold. “What would you have us do?”

“We are a day or so from Naboo,” Hux begins carefully, aware with a heavy weight that any ill-judged word could have him struck dead. “We should retire there to establish necessary repairs and strategy. Personally, I would appoint a council of Generals to ensure a comprehensive transition galaxy-wide to autocratic rule. The succession of a new leader is always ripe with the potential for chaos, let alone at the closing stages of a war.”

Ren’s face is cool, impassive, and it is making Hux more nervous than a fit of fury would. “Are you usurping me, General?”

Hux’s smile is humourless, but not empty of pleasure. It’s a concession. If Ren really suspected as much, he’d have cut him down where he stands. “Not at all.”

Ren’s lip curls into a sneer. “Then you’re asking me to trust you’re serving my best intentions.”

Hux shakes his head. “No, my lord,” he insists flatly. “Trust is irrelevant. I’m asking you to know that I’m serving the best interests of the Order, as I always have.”

Ren nods once. “Set up your council. Keep me informed.” He pauses after he turns to leave, and even as Hux is caught up in the relief of having not been murdered he knows it is wholly for effect. “I’ll be watching.”

Within three days they arrive at Naboo. Star destroyers flit in and out of the planet’s atmosphere like errant birds, depositing generals from all corners of the galaxy, but the _Supremacy_ alone has the privilege of remaining in orbit. Hux stands on the bridge and watches as they make their slow approach, listening to the unsteady rattle of his engineers’ report and wondering how many more excuses he’ll be forced to endure.

“Your shuttle is ready, sir,” Mitaka appears at his elbow to say, and they walk together to the hangar bay. Their silence is amiable, broken only by odd comments about the technicians’ progress or lack thereof. There is promise, Hux thinks, if fledgling.

“I expect reports about the ship’s recovery daily,” Hux says as they wait for the lowering ramp, pulling on his gloves. It is spring in Theed, but they are still more for the aesthetic than the cold. “I’ll be with my sister when I’m not at HQ.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister, sir,” Mitaka says, curious.

“Perhaps I’ll introduce you,” he replies flatly, turning to allow the Lieutenant to help him with his greatcoat. “You have much the same bullheaded arrogance and sarcastic sense of humour. You’d get along splendidly.”

Mitaka, smiling just a little, steps back and salutes sharply. “Do keep me informed about the summit, won’t you, sir?”

Hux nods. “I shan’t promise to,” he replies, and takes the ramp up into the belly of the shuttle in quick, eager steps.

When he was just a boy, Hux had heard stories about the paradise of Naboo. Reality may have fallen short of the sweeping vistas and the endless summers his mother had remembered, but there are worse planets in the galaxy to be obliged to return to every once in a while. Hux had attended the Academy long before the Order had felt secure enough to transfer it to the Palace, but he’s spent time enough in the city since they first took over Theed.

Naboo is a quiet planet, a decent planet, and was far from first among the Republic’s priorities after the Empire’s fall. The Order had taken great pains to tread gently, and by the time their occupation of its capital had risen to Core’s attention it was far too late for them to intervene. Ironically, though the Republic had not wanted it to become a shrine to Palpatine, its fame as a place of pilgrimage to the old ways had nothing to do with them; as much as they’d rewrite history and claim otherwise, in truth the temple taking venerations in the Emperor’s name was well-established long before the Order touched ground.

Hux’s shuttle dips smoothly through the atmosphere, ignoring the vaulting towers of Theed to the south and skimming over the open fields of the countryside instead. Below them on the main road in and out of the capital, speeders and kaadu and rickety wagons bumble along to Varykino, piled high with shiny wares to take to some rich noble or another. The Order had tried to drive many of the locals out, a tenet which Hux vehemently and vocally opposed whenever given his chance. Not because of any residing sentiment; he took no joy in the tangled mess of peoples found in cities like Theed. But for order to thrive, for there to be a rank of high to low, there must always be someone at the end of the line. And what harm is there, Hux surmises, in utilising that resource for both the power of propaganda and cannon fodder?

After a few moments the road twists and branches, its tributaries winding their way up into the mountains and the thickly-growing trees shielding the travellers from view. Beyond the mountains are the lakes, their high snow-topped peaks cloaking the waters from the noises and smells of the city a hundred leagues away. The pilot skims along the shoreline, their twin engines trailing fingers through the placid surface, before pulling up in a soft arc as they reach the borders of his sister’s estate. The word paradise derived for an ancient term for gardens, Hux knows. It always seems fitting when looking at his sister’s sprawling, manicured lands, the rich red grass and the bright blue blooms cultivated to perfection.

They set neatly down on the landing strip a few hundred yards from the house. A handful of human servants and protocol droids wait to attend on them, bowing and dropping curtsies, and a mechanic springs forward to check with the pilot about the engine. His sister will be waiting at the house, keeping clear of the heat of the sun. The air is clear and bright, filled with the rhythm of birdsong, and Hux pulls in a deep breath of it as he sets off up the pale yellow path.

The estate had belonged to the Naberrie family, a long time ago. Hux’s father had taken special care to arrange for its purchase as soon as the Order began to set its sights on Naboo, and he had always kept the remnants of the family crest etched about the place with great pride; Hux had never quite ascertained which of the many motives his father had in mind, and the multiplicity presumably suited his purposes very well. The family stood as a symbol of the failure of the Republic, for Senator Amidala had been both its chief advocate and yet so intrinsic to its fall. It was even rumoured that it was here that she married Vader, though little of that era of the building now remained. His father had ham-fistedly attempted to reconstruct it in parts, but the seams were a little too obvious for Hux’s tastes.

He clears the final line of trees and the house itself comes into view, silhouetted beautifully by the sparkling lake. From here it only appears to rise two storeys, the groundline hiding the series of terraces which drop down towards the lakeside, making full use of both the sun and the view. It’s strange to him now, approaching the house, how a place can seem both like home and the farthest thing from it.

Réillata is waiting for him on the terrace, shaded from the sun by a vast gold-trimmed umbrella. Beside her sits a bottle of nectarwine, perfectly chilled. She rises to meet him the moment he comes into view, kissing his cheek with a waft of sweet perfume, and as ever in her presence Hux feels grubby and uncouth. Their mothers had handed on their own colouring, and she is dark and soft where he is bright and pale. Perhaps he would look less pasty if he ever spent more than a few days out in the sun.

They sit on the loungers either side of the table with the wine, and Hux, swiftly designating himself as off-duty, gratefully accepts a glass. “I could do with a little more warning,” Réillata says, not unkindly.

“I didn’t have any to give,” Hux admits.

“Is that thing up there the flagship I’ve heard so much about?”

Hux glances up, takes in the awful jagged edge of his torn-up vessel stark against the cold blue sky. “The _Supremacy_.”

“Who names these things?” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Am I permitted to know your schedule?”

“I’ll be in Theed most of the time,” Hux says. “But I should like to stay here if I can.”

“Of course.” Réillata raises her glass. “The Supreme Leader is dead.”

Hux echoes the motion. “Long live the Supreme Leader,” he replies.

When the heat of the day has passed, Hux walks through the gardens and down to the lake to swim. The water is cold and clear against his skin, pleasantly sharp to the touch, and the world around him is silent, almost as though the very thought of noise is somehow impolite.

He is so rarely unobserved these days. Out here, alone in the stillness of the water, Hux closes his eyes and allows the emotion to rise. Fury comes first, for that loathsome little band of idiots and what they’ve done, but for Ren too, for his childishness and incompetence and all that it’s caused him to lose. Shame, that under his watchful eye the Order suffered such a staggering defeat. And grief, slow and quiet and rising through him, not just for what they lost but what they had once stood to gain as well.

He wants to dive deep down beneath the surface and scream until his lungs protest, but such a thing would be uncouth even if done in isolation. So he swims back and forth fifty yards from the shore until his arms ache with the effort and his lungs grumble in misery. He turns back to land, sits out in the sunlight until he’s something resembling dry, and then winds his way through the immaculate gardens to the house.

Hux feels underdressed for dinner, even though it’s just the two of them around the table. The food is all too rich, in turns too sharp or too sweet, his palate dulled by years of the Order’s commissary. He’s never really had the time to adjust to civilian food. It’s rude of him to leave so much, but the staff is used to space-wrought poor habits, and they replace his half-eaten food with a fresh glass of wine without blinking.

“Have you seen your mother since we last met?” Réillata asks, still clearing her own plate.

“No,” Hux admits; he doesn’t think he’s so much as spoken to his mother in the last five years at least. “Do you see much of yours?”

She shrugs. “Now and then. Now that I’ve passed muster there’s not much to discuss. And she’s husband-hunting, of course.”

Hux can’t help a smile. “Number three?”

“Four, actually. The last one fell foul of card sharps in Canto Bight. Very unlike my mother to have such a lapse of judgement, but apparently he was extremely handsome.” She sits back to allow her place to be cleared, taking a mouthful of wine. “Do you really suppose the war is over?”

Hux blinks, surprised. He hasn’t had the luxury of the time required to observe the general mood of the galaxy, but between the obliteration of Hosnian Prime and the Resistance’s dismal last stand he supposes the perception might indeed be that the war is ended in their favour. “It might be,” he says, slowly. “Yes.”

Réillata doesn’t look remotely shocked. It makes Hux wonder whether her intelligence surpasses the Order’s. She certainly has friends in high places. “What do you think you’ll do?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Whatever Generals do in peacetime, I suppose. There’s still much ground to cover.” He eyes her carefully. “I haven’t the inclination for politics, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She lets the comment pass. “Do you think he stands much of a chance, this Lord Ren?”

“He certainly is in need of improvement,” Hux concedes, nose wrinkling in distaste as he thinks of his utter lack of self-control. “But as to his fitness to lead, I’m not sure we have a choice.”

It isn’t a pleasant thought. Once his glass is empty again, Hux leaves Réillata to the wine and the view. There are luxuries here he never forgets, the scent of fresh earth and the feeling of light at sunset and the pleasure of washing in water. It is almost enough to convince him that a Destroyer is no place to call home, that space is the emptiness of life and not a vessel for it.

Almost. By the end of tomorrow Hux knows full well he’ll have no such regrets. Five minutes in traffic and a day spent in bureaucratic boredom will be more than enough to ensure that.

Hux has always found the gaudy ostentation of the Palace distasteful, and his opinion isn’t much improved by winding his way through the labyrinthine corridors, his boots clacking loudly on the beautifully-tiled floors. True power doesn’t require vaulting chambered halls and statues of long-dead rulers; true power rests on the weight of deeds and words, of leaders and followers. But it keeps the old guard happy, and if nothing else Hux understands the value of picking his battles.

A table has been found from somewhere and placed in the council room, a huge heavy oval thing intricately carved and inlaid with something akin to gold, large enough to seat all eight of them comfortably. Hux inspects the patterns with distaste, unable to read the language of the inscriptions and wholly disinterested in their meaning. Furniture like this would never do onboard a ship; too weighty, too impractical, too cumbersome. Ren, he suspects, will be a leader quite fond of triumphal monuments and victory parades. He finds himself wondering what he’ll have to cut from the budget to accommodate them.

The other generals file into the council room, a few briefly joining Hux in his examination of the table. Though ostensibly chosen by Ren, Hux had had something of a heavy hand in their selection; Ren knew as much about the Academy and its politics as Hux knew of the Force, and half the names Ren put forward were of men that were long since dead. Hux is the only one around the table under forty. He had attempted to be diplomatic, to draw from the fresh blood as well as the old guard, but doubtless both sides will feel hard done by. Maro stands to Hux’s left, Vake to his right, whilst Juka, Solaku, and Wattin pause opposite; that leaves Forthknight and Redflax to sit at the head and tail and glare at one another as usual. “Welcome, gentlemen,” Redflax begins, but before he can settle into his chair Forthknight holds up his hand.

“The Supreme Leader is dead,” Forthknight says, and all around the table the generals bow their heads. “Long live the Supreme Leader!”

They sit. Redflax already looks hacked off, Hux notices with some delight. He settles into the chair and enjoys the comfort of the red leather against his back. “You called this summit, General Hux,” Vake says, his voice as thin and ridden with a sneer as always. “And you’ve certainly had a busy few days. Perhaps you’d like to catch us all up.”

Hux does. He knows full-well that every man around the table is already wholly aware of his recent faults, but it is somewhat of an Order ritual to echo them aloud in front of one’s peers; and besides, he has plenty of successes to follow them with. The men listen in silence, making neither comments nor queries, until Hux mentions Ren’s departure from the _Supremacy_ the day before their arrival above Theed.

“And where is Ren now?” Vake asks.

“I’m not sure,” Hux admits. “He thought it prudent to pursue the _Falcon_. I saw no reason to dissuade him.”

Juka’s mouth twists into a customary wry smile. “But you disagree with his course of action?”

Hux raises an eyebrow, as if to say his intentions would be obvious to cleverer men. “The Resistance has no fleet,” he says slowly. “It has no leaders. It has no base, no resources, and no friends. I understand Skywalker is dead. That leaves Organa and this scavenger girl, plus whomever they managed to corral onto that flying pile of scrap.”

“The girl killed Snoke,” the heavy-set Maro rumbles from beside him, his forehead thick with a scowl.

Hux clears his throat. “Frankly,” he says delicately, “I doubt that.”

Maro’s eyes narrow dangerously. “You suspect Ren of treachery?”

“I suspect him of ambition,” Hux replies smoothly. Quick glances of agreement flit between the other men. “Either that, or one scavenger girl untrained in the Force managed to overpower Snoke, Ren, and eight of his élite guards.”

“And Skywalker is definitely dead,” Forthknight says slowly, tinted with just a hint of a question.

Hux spreads his hands in acquiescence. “Ren seems certain,” he replies. “It has been his ambition to kill him for as long as I can recall. In that, I doubt he has any reason to lie.”

“We were expecting him to join us,” Maro interjects in a mutter.

Then you were foolish, Hux wants to reply, but he keeps his tongue in check. “I spoke with Lord Ren shortly before his departure,” he says. “I believe I have a sufficient sense of his intentions to allow us to progress.”

“We’re all ears, General,” Solaku murmurs.

“As great his power and as infinite his wisdom,” Hux continues, “Our new Supreme Leader has no interest or aptitude for bureaucracy. I have suggested to him that we form a committee to act as seneschals and establish best practice whilst granting him the power to veto our actions and as when he sees fit.”

“With yourself as leader, I suppose?” Vake asks in his high, whiny sneer.

Hux smiles thinly. He’s almost insulted that someone would consider him that obvious, but Vake has never been a clever man. “On the contrary,” he replies easily. “Aside from running as a collective, it would be pertinent to install someone who was familiar with the old system and its practices.” He takes a moment to lean into the theatrics, looking at each of the other men in turn, before concluding: “I propose General Maro.”

The creaky murmur of seven old men shifting in leather chairs ripples round the room. “The old system?” Wattin says slowly. He, unlike Maro and Vake, has the kind of voice he never has to raise to command attention. Between that and his thin, paper-white skin he often reminds Hux of some kind of ghast. “Lest we forget, the Empire lost.”

Maro audibly harrumphs. “It had a fairly good run of it,” he says darkly. “Do you have an alternative system in mind?”

Wattin smiles thinly. “I have some ideas.”

“They can wait,” Redflax interrupts, looking harangued. “Let’s pause, gentlemen, and take refreshment.”

The group breaks into predictable factions as they wait for the protocol droids to arrive. Hux allows himself the luxury of taking in the view, wandering across to the window and staring down the broad, bright streets of their capital. The scene is one of peace and prosperity, and he regards it with a quiet, satisfied thrill; such will be the way of things, from now. Thanks to them.

General Juka joins him at the window with a cup of caf for them both. Of all the men gathered in the room, Juka is by far his favourite; he has a quiet sense of purpose which Hux admires, and an ease with his peers which Hux envies. As the only one besides Hux who did not serve under the Empire, they both also have some small claim to being outsiders. “You seem well-acquainted with our new leader,” Juka says.

It has something less of a barb in it than it might from the others, but that doesn’t wholly reduce the need for caution. “We have worked in proximity for some time,” Hux acknowledges. “But never towards the same end.”

“Do you believe him to be capable of his new position?” he asks, seemingly genuine in his curiosity.

Hux’s instinct is to snort, but he overcomes it. In truth it’s almost mortifying to think that the might of the Order rests in the hands of a thirty year old child, but circumstances are too well-set to be altered at present; Ren is too dangerous, too unpredictable to be disposed of. And he certainly has no desire of being named Leader himself. It’s far too onerous a position, with fleeting power and even less freedom. Far better to be kept in the Leader’s favour whilst operating in a group of the select few.

He realises he hasn’t given Juka an answer. “Under the right guidance, yes,” he replies, and Juka’s wry smile suggests he understands him better than Hux would like.

“You are staying with your sister, I understand?”

Hux blinks. “Yes,” he concedes. He was unaware this information was so readily available, though it wouldn’t be out of the question for Juka to have him watched. “Out in Varykino.”

Juka hums appreciatively. “How lovely,” he murmurs, looking past Hux at the clear blue sky outside with a certain wistfulness.

“Perhaps you will come and dine with us one evening?”

“If I can spare the time,” he agrees with a sigh, voice tinged with what appears to be genuine regret. “Matterweaver seems determined upon haranguing me until he’s secured every credit we owe.”

Hux snorts. Carth Matterweaver is almost as much of a brat as Kylo Ren, but most regrettably he has proven their best source of ion cannonry thus far. “He is perhaps the only one among us sorry to see the war come to an end,” he mutters, finishing his cup of caf and placing it on the sill. He catches Juka watching the others thoughtfully.

“Maro is an interesting suggestion,” Juka says pensively, after a moment.

It’s one Hux had arrived at through great deliberation. Forthknight and Redflax are too set in their ways, counterparts on a spectrum that venerates or disowns the Emperor to an unhelpful end. Solaku’s power comes chiefly from the vastness of his manufacturing empire rather than political nous, but he commands Forthknight’s respect and is a bastion of the old ways. Vake and Wattin are the brightest two from Redflax’s clique, but both too stubborn and quick to temper to really make efficient leaders; and Juka is too clever for his own good. Hux had mainly chosen to include him in order to keep an eye on what he was up to. Davin Maro is too dull-witted to be capable of much intrigue and sufficiently well-regarded by both sides to not seem to be playing favourites.

Hux says none of this, of course; he merely tilts his head to show his agreement. “I thought him best suited of the old guard to accommodate alternative perspectives,” he simply replies.

The meeting drags on late into the afternoon. The familiar petty rivalries are already rearing their heads regardless of Hux’s attempts at realpolitik; they cannot find consensus on any issue. Each General is accustomed to his own way of command, and most are too block-headed to admit the sense of the others’ ideas.

Their defeat of the Resistance and destruction of the Republic sadly was not accompanied by a sackful of credits, and their resources are still ultimately stretched thin. Not one of them can agree with their peers about what direction the Order should immediately move in. Hux tolerates their bickering in scornful silence, until Vake turns to him and spits, “I do hope we aren’t keeping you from something more interesting, General Hux.”

Hux smiles thinly. “I fail to understand what could be achieved by my adding yet another possibility to the mix. You gentlemen have already thought of enough.”

“Indulge my curiosity,” Maro interjects, his low voice heavy with threat. “What would you have us do first?”

“Begin decreasing our reliance on conditioned troops,” Hux answers flatly, and around him his peers explode with predictable outrage. He should perhaps have been a little less blunt, but his patience with Vake’s posturing is already wearing thin.

Ignoring the barely-muttered protests of the other generals, Maro turns to Redflax. “What is the current rate of unexplained deconditioning?” Maro asks.

“Holding steady at around point zero three percent, I believe,” Redflax replies, squinting at Hux with clear dislike in his beady eyes. The conditioning programme had been his brainchild, and he won’t have taken Hux’s comment as anything other than a thinly-veiled insult.

“With respect,” Hux says icily, “That’s nearly two thousand troops per Destroyer.”

“I suppose you would have us go back to Clones,” Vake sneers.

“Or droids!” scoffs Solaku; Hux resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Your request seems to be ill-favoured, General Hux,” Maro says coolly. “For now, I believe that we need to prioritise establishing a base within the Inner Rim to maximise our legitimacy.”

“Kuat remains easily defendable and loyal to the Imperial cause,” Juka suggests.

“An excellent idea,” Maro agrees. “Perhaps you would supervise an inspection of its potential with the _Thunderclap_.” Juka inclines his head. “With that, gentlemen, let’s finish for the day.” Maro slides a look in Hux’s direction. “I am sure we will all benefit from some time for reflection and contemplation.”

Contemplation my arse, Hux thinks sourly as they all stand and salute. They’ll all be scuttling off to solidify their own recourse and establish their own little concordats. It’s almost enough to make him wish he were off with Ren on his silly little magical sojourns instead.

“Long day?” Réillata asks slyly as Hux collapses into the lounger beside her. She smiles sweetly in response to his glare, gestures at a waiting protocol droid in the shadows, and hands him a box of cigarras worth more than the house they’re sitting in.

Hux opens it with reverence, taking in the sharp smell of the wooden box and the headier darkness of the cigarras beneath in a deep, slow breath. “I haven’t had Kashyyykian tabacc in years,” he murmurs, skimming his fingers along the uppermost row.

“I know,” she replies, still smiling. “Call it your portion of the bequest.”

Hux glances up, surprised. “They were his?”

“The box was,” she answers, offering him a lighter. “Stars know I’ve no use for it.”

They smoke in silence together for a while, watching the thin-yellow sun sinking lazily down towards the mountains. It’s almost enough to chase away the frustrations of the day; almost. It’s certainly enough to give him pause and accept that the majority of his plans are proceeding much as he might wish them to. Coruscant wasn’t built in a day. He just wishes they weren’t all so damn tiresome.

“I don’t know what I expected from a bunch of bloody greysuits,” Hux says, in time. “They all came up before Yavin was even a twinkle in the Emperor’s eye.”

“Perhaps it would be better if Lord Ren were in attendance,” she suggests idly.

Hux snorts. “Hardly. That man can’t be a diplomat any more than he can speak Bocce, and he won’t gain a thing by attempting to intimidate them. They didn’t serve the Emperor for forty years merely because they feared him.”

Réillata sighs dramatically. “He doesn’t sound much good for anything.”

“Ren is manageable,” Hux replies, finishing the cigarra. “I watched Snoke do it for years. Truthfully, he’s like a child. All bluster and no forethought. He sees himself as some kind of neo-Vader, but even the mask is just aesthetic.”

Réillata sits up, her eyes glittering with interest. “Really?” she asks. “You’ve seen him? What does he look like?” Hux bites the inside of his cheek, doesn’t reply. Even here he should know better than to be so indiscreet. “I heard a rumour he’s the missing Solo child,” she adds, once she recognises his incalcitrance.

Hux rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me you buy into that conspiracy nonsense,” he mutters. “He’s not missing, he’s dead.” The boy’s tragic demise and the subsequent destruction of his parents’ marriage had generated enough income for the galaxy’s tabloids to fund a small army. Even at the time, Hux remembers feeling grateful that the galaxy had finally seen fit to eliminate the Skywalkers for good.

After dinner, Hux retires to the engineering reports awaiting him in his room. He reads them through with rising dread, a litany of aborted attempts to save this equipment or that deck to no avail. They’ve started stripping the lower levels for scrap.

His sister’s words from earlier idly into his mind, and he finds himself pulling up a search on the Solo child out of idle curiosity. There are a few HoloNet articles from around the time of his death, but no pictures later than the one just past his tenth birthday at some society do on Hosnian Prime, hanging off his mother’s arm. There’s a little similarity, Hux will admit; something in the shape of his nose and jaw. Perhaps it’s hard to tell, given the boy’s sunny smile. It’s not an expression Kylo Ren wears.

Hux exits the search. When his request to speak to Ren is summarily denied, he kneels neatly in the holoprojector’s range and attempts to précis the politics of the day into a message instead; then he stands, works a little of the ache out of his limbs, and goes to bed.

The sky above Theed the next morning is heavy and grey, full of threat. The air feels charged against his skin as Hux walks down the path to his waiting shuttle; he can’t remember the last time he experienced rain. It had snowed occasionally on Ilum, but it was hardly his wont to wander around when there was work to do.

It begins to fall in a hush once he’s inside the Palace, rattling gently against the windows and throwing the scent of the stone into the air through the open window. The whole planet seems muffled, as if it’s been gently sheltered with an enormous woollen blanket from above. For the second time since they arrived back on Naboo, Hux finds himself thinking about all that is lost in a life lived in space.

What will he do now, Réillata had asked; and standing here watching the rain as he waits for his peers to deign him with their presence, Hux finds himself wondering too. Would he live here with her on Naboo? Would he attend her dreadful society dinners? Design spacecraft and oversee engineering projects, as he had before Starkiller? Negotiate tedious treaties and debate over economic policy in stuffy, miserable rooms?

“You look like you have the weight of the galaxy on your shoulders,” Juka says suddenly in a murmur beside him, and Hux jumps. Juka raises his hands in contrition. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Hux allows himself a smile. “Just following Maro’s recommendation for consideration and reflection,” he says, not wholly without humour. “I trust you had a pleasant evening doing the same?”

Juka’s smile is customarily wry. “A word of warning,” he replies. “Matterweaver’s looking to corner you. He wants to sit in on the meetings.”

Hux pulls a face. “He’s just a merchant,” he replies dismissively, waving a hand. “He’ll get his money.”

“I think he’s rather more interested in what we have planned,” Juka discloses quietly. The door creaks open; the others file in, resuming their places around the table. “You really have concerns about the conditioning programme?” Juka asks as they move to join them.

“Not as such,” Hux admits. “I am just mindful of our weaknesses and keen to take measures against them.” Besides, once they are established as a legitimate political entity they shouldn’t need to brainwash their followers.

It swiftly emerges that the day’s focus is to be on establishing the Order’s imminent fiscal strategy, and Hux briefly contemplates throwing himself out of the open window. As much as he understands and appreciates the necessity for thorough finances, the establishment of economic policy holds about as much interest to Hux as wrestling dianoga, with about as much wading through rubbish. Though chiefly reliant on a mixture of private individual backers and daylight robbery, the Order is approaching sufficient size and clout to participate in the more legitimate areas of trade, and it is Maro’s belief that they must make imminent moves to launch themselves in these realms.

They have already lost the hyperspace lanes corewards of Corellia to the Hutts following the destruction of Hosnian Prime, thanks to the Hutts being better-equipped and less occupied by galactic warfare; a treaty will have to be broached, in lieu of a hostile takeover the Order can ill afford. Forthknight had served his early years on Bothawui and is thus best-placed to serve their interests in that sector. Kuat is most proximate to Coruscant, which lends weight to Maro’s suggestion that Juka should be the one to begin open negotiation with the Merchants’ Guild, but it is a suggestion that Solaku and all his established connections instantly resents. “You cannot be everywhere, General Solaku,” Maro says tiredly, when Solaku predictably objects. He has already been appointed to lead the talks with the Iridium Collective.

Their other principle weakness is a steady supply of rhydonium, currently compensated by their excellent but expensive relationship with the hypermatter refinery on Mustafar. Shortly before the firing of the Weapon Redflax had received reports of a civil war on Abafar, and the council rules in favour of dispatching him to exploit it if possible and seize their considerable rhydonium mines.

That leaves him, Vake, and Wattin to be assigned. Maro has already decided that he should remain on Theed himself; Hux privately thinks he may have realised quite how luxurious the Palace lodgings are and his considerable claim to utilising them. “Love for the Republic is still strongest rimwards of Coruscant,” Wattin says in his soft, cruel voice. “Perhaps it would be prudent to dispatch a few Destroyers as a peacekeeping force until we are better established.”

Hux perks up; this is far more his quarter. “The firepower on the _Supremacy_ is unrivalled by anything else in the fleet,” he says. “I would strongly recommend her as a candidate if the intention is deterrence.”

Maro regards him impassively for a moment. “The engineers’ reports I received this morning conclude that the _Supremacy_ must be scuppered,” he says, and Hux’s heart clenches with anger and something akin to grief. “General Hux, as the man under whose command she was lost, perhaps you would see fit to carry this out?”

Humiliation bursts hot and sour in his mouth. Hux twists it down, deep into the crevices of his furious heart, and nods once. “Absolutely, sir,” he says, once he trusts himself to speak without a tremor. “It would be an honour.”

“Not one to which you become too accustomed, I hope,” Maro coldly replies. “Vake, take the _Vitiater_ and patrol around Ord Mantell. Wattin, I believe you are already familiar with the Cantonica system. You may take charge of the _Finalizer_ until General Hux is ready to resume his command.”

Vake and Wattin duly bow their heads. Hux forces himself to stare out at the gently-falling rain, nails dug sharply into the soft palm of his hands. It is a fitting revenge, he knows, and one that he certainly deserves. If Snoke had survived the chaos of the _Supremacy_ ’s destruction, he would have likely been stripped of his rank and thrown to the dogs. At the very worst, he would have been executed on the spot. A wretched, irrational part of him finds itself wishing that he had been.

“Oh, excellent,” Forthknight cheerily says, cutting clean through Hux’s brooding despair. “The caf is here.”

The rain has kicked itself up into a howling gale by the time Hux leaves the Palace late that afternoon, which suits his black mood perfectly. His greatcoat is heavy with water by the time he reaches the shuttle, and he sits in it throughout the journey and shivers with morbid self-indulgence. He deserves all of it, the miserable weather and the sodden clothes and the abject humiliation of being deprived of his command.

Réillata has very little sympathy, though she tolerates him throwing himself into an armchair with a glass of brandy and whining for a good few minutes. “They’ve given me the _Actuator_ ,” Hux bemoans miserably. “She’s a bloody jumped-up freighter. Four hundred crew. Four _hundred_!” He downs his second glass and reaches for the bottle. “Father would disinherit me all over again.”

“Well,” she replies, not glancing up from her datapad, “He’s dead, and you’re not. Stop wallowing in self-pity and do your job.”

Deserved or not, this does little to mollify him. He leaves her to it with an ill-applied air of superiority and wanders back to his room, but he only gets one foot through the door before the vaguest thought of informing Ren about his disgrace makes him want to murder something. The winds outside seem to have calmed; he finds his way to one of the hundred little terraces instead, leaning out on the wall and watching absently as Réillata’s pack of gardeners scurries to clear the damage rendered by the storm. There’s something soothing in it, watching them wrangle order back out of chaos.

Eventually one of them spots him, jogging over with his little bucket of tools. “Are you alright, sir? The path should be clear if you’d like to go down to the lake.” Hux shakes his head; but rather than taking this as his due dismissal, the man hesitates, taking another step towards him. “I did see you out there, didn’t I? Swimming?”

Hux gives him a look. “Are you paid to spy on guests?”

The gardener grins, and to Hux’s surprise he takes the liberty of hopping up to sit onto the little wall separating the terrace from the path below. “Only the handsome ones,” he replies in a murmur, leaning forward conspiratorially, and Hux snorts. “I haven’t seen you here before,” he adds, when Hux fails to reply.

Hux tries to look dignified. The man is certainly attractive, and it’s been a long while since anyone tried to flirt with him; it’s doing wonders for his battered ego. “I don’t make a habit of visiting,” he admits.

The gardener nods. “You’re here for the summit,” he guesses. “I went to the Palace once, when I was little. Back when – it was still used by the monarch.” He sighs under his breath, then lets out a long, low laugh that chafes Hux’s nerves. “I have to say,” he adds, visibly looking Hux over, “You’re not what I expected.”

Hux blinks. “Excuse me?” he asks, somewhat prissily.

“You’re so young,” the man says, his voice suddenly filled with contempt. “And so _small_.”

Hux is still forming a furious reply when he sees the knife in the other man’s hand. He’s been clever, inching his way into Hux’s space, taking advantage of Hux’s inebriation and his wounded pride. A lethal combination.

It’s been a long time since Hux was last in a fight; but not long enough. The man thrusts at him with more passion than skill, and Hux dodges the blow with fluid ease. In the moment it takes the man to get over the balcony wall, Hux has grounded himself and gained the upper hand. The man slashes forward again, his eyes wild and desperate, and Hux indulges him two further brief attempts to get the measure of his speed and method. The man tries once more, and in four swift movements Hux has stepped forward, smacked the knife from his hand, caught it, and brought it across the man’s throat.

He drops to the floor with a wet gurgle, his blood spraying like sunlight across Hux’s chest. Hux stands there in shock, knife in his hand, trembling with adrenaline; then footsteps from the hallway snap his senses back and he holds up the weapon again.

A collection of his sister’s staff peers out of the door with a mixture of horror and fear, and Hux scans their faces for threat. Finding none, he approaches the doorway, knife still raised. They shrink away, all too eager to let him pass. Slowly, steadily, half-stumbling, Hux breaks into a run.

He halts in his quarters only to retrieve his blaster and datapad. He’s always been fortunate enough to have few possessions to collect, and what he did have has already gone up in flames along with Starkiller Base and his impeccable reputation. He’s already heading for the door when Réillata appears in his way, her eyes wide and afraid. “What happened?” she asks, her voice cracking on the words.

“Your garden boy tried to kill me,” Hux says shortly, trying to push past her.

Réillata seizes his arm in a grip like death. “Armitage,” she says roughly. “I had no part in this.”

Hux meets her eye. “I know,” he replies in time, and finds on saying it that he does believe it to be true. Her touch gentles; he feels his own expression soften. “I’ll have some troopers sent over to keep watch over you.”

She pales. “Is that necessary?”

“I hope not.” He pulls free from her grip, presses a brief kiss to her cheek. “Be well.”

It comes as some surprise when his shuttle veers not towards the capital but back to the _Supremacy_ above, snapping through the atmosphere and into the vast blackness of space waiting beyond. He supposes it is a logical choice on the pilot’s behalf; here, he knows for certain his charge will be protected. He just wishes he’d spent one more moment in the gardens, staring out at the lake and feeling the touch of weak, storm-fussed sunlight on his face.

Mitaka is waiting for him at the base of the ramp once he descends, looking for all the world like Hux is rising from beyond the grave; he pales when he gets a clear sight of him, and Hux can only conclude it’s because he’s covered in rather a lot of blood. “Why in the stars are you hovering, Lieutenant?” he asks sharply once he’s within earshot.

“They didn’t say what happened, sir,” Mitaka says anxiously, looking him over. “Just that you were hurt.”

Hux’s lip curls. “I’m fine,” he replies, passing a hand over his eyes. “You’d best go spread the news that I’m not dead before anyone gets their hopes up.”

The medical decks are the only part of the _Supremacy_ with access to running water; it is for that reason alone that Hux reports himself to their care, knowing from blunt experience how impossible it is to get blood out of hair with sonic alone. He endures the droids’ prodding and the doctors’ lectures about the early signs of trauma with about as much discipline he can manage, and then marches off to his quarters for a moment of damnable peace. He wants nothing more than to sink into the familiar stretch of his standard-issue bed, but it’s only when he’s shrugging off his greatcoat and seeking out his bedclothes that he remembers his due report to Lord Ren.

Alone as he is, Hux allows himself the luxury of a curse. If he fails to report Ren will know something is amiss, and he’d much rather this horrid little incident passes without his inane comment. He’s still wrapped in the medbay’s standard nightgown, and that certainly won’t do; the uniform he was wearing hit the incinerator the moment he could get it off. Muttering under his breath about his considerable misfortune, Hux crosses the room to his closet and puts on fresh clothes to contact Ren.

To his surprise, Ren answers the call. Hux is already on one knee, but he bows his head in instant deference and says, voice carefully flat, “My lord.”

_“What? I’m busy.”_

He risks glancing up; Ren looks customarily annoyed. “You asked me to give you reports, my lord.”

_“Not daily.”_

Daily reports are the bloody protocol, but Hux seriously doubts Ren knows that. “Apologies. I’ll record a message instead.”

 _“I’m here now_.”

Hux bites the inside of his cheek hard, forcing himself to take a deep, steadying breath. “The council has established best practice in command deployment and economic policy,” he begins. “I can supply further details of the particulars should you require, but we are working to address our deficit in reliable fuel supplies and the loss of hyperspace lanes to the Hutts.” Not, Hux thinks, that Ren will have had the faintest inkling of all of this before. “The engineering reports conclude the _Supremacy_ is to be scuppered, and I have decided to oversee the operation myself.”

Ren scowls thickly. _“Scuppered? That’s absurd.”_

Hux regards him for a moment, curious. “I can let the council know you consider it unnecessary.”

Ren shakes his head. _“I trust the engineers’ judgement. Anything else?”_

“Only further detail to what I’ve mentioned, my lord.”

 _“Good,”_ he says, and terminates the link. Hux sits back on his haunches, huffs out a dry, bitter laugh. _Brat_ , he thinks, and then revels in the knowledge that Ren is too far away to catch him doing it. He can feel the exhaustion creeping up on him, the throwback of his lost adrenaline and the distant consequences of his fear. At least, Hux thinks absently as he straightens up and lets the weight of it crash into him, he had the presence of mind to put on his uniform.

It’s strange to make the journey down to the city from above. Hux thinks with faint wistfulness of Réillata’s terrace with its expansive, glittering view, the excellent caf she has shipped in from Coruscant, the pleasant morning walk he’d taken to performing in the post-dawn sun. But he had always known it was a temporary luxury, and squaring up to its loss now merely takes a little more willpower than it would have later on.

Juka is waiting for his shuttle when it lands in the barracks, Hux’s pilot given special permission to use the private landing bay. “I heard what happened,” Juka says, his stern face truthfully looking a little concerned. “You aren’t hurt?”

Hux shakes his head. They fall into step towards the council chamber. “I think he was Resistance, but I can’t be sure,” he says. The other generals come into view, huddling around the entrance; Hux wrinkles his nose. “For all I know one of these lot set him on me,” he adds, and Juka snorts.

One figure breaks away from the pack, and Hux notices with a frown that he’s clad in civilian dress. It’s a clever look, the Order’s colours and insignia carefully woven into an outfit that’s far too fashionable for an officer. Matterweaver, Hux realises, even as the man makes a beeline for him. Wonderful.

“Good morning, General,” Carth Matterweaver says breezily, and Hux takes great pleasure in noticing how his hairline is ruthlessly receding as he accepts his lazy salute. “Dreadful business, isn’t it?”

This is so awfully vague as to be faintly ludicrous; Hux purses his lips and says, “Quite.” He nods past Matterweaver at the open door. “I’d hate to keep my colleagues waiting – ”

“Oh, absolutely,” Matterweaver interjects with a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth. “I just wondered if General Maro has mentioned our proposal?”

Hux raises an eyebrow. “If you desire extra funding for a particular endeavour, Chandler Matterweaver, then you are already well-acquainted with the requisite procedure.”

Matterweaver tilts his hawkish head, giving Hux a long, cold look. “It’s rather convenient for you, isn’t it?” he says, after a moment. “Snoke being overthrown. After the mess you made at Starkiller I rather thought you’d be executed yourself.”

A decade’s worth of being called a power-grabbing whore and other such banal remarks from his elders equips him well to keep his temper. Hux pulls his mouth into an equally chilly smile, and says, “You may be accustomed to the other Generals allowing you to speak as you please, Matterweaver, but rest assured if I want your opinion I will ask for it.” He steps past him, turns on his heel to deliver his final line, and is suddenly reminded of Ren doing the same to him a few days before. “If you continue to speculate so crassly about my loyalty to the Order I am sure I can find us another source of ion engines for the fleet.”

Juka, who endured this brief exchange with a deep air of bored indifference, follows dutifully behind as Hux marches on to the council chamber. “Be careful with Matterweaver,” he murmurs under his breath, just as they enter the room. “He and Maro go back to before Yavin.”

Hux takes his seat with straight-backed composure, internally seething. He sees no reason why he should bow his head to the man even if he had sucked off bloody Tarkin himself decades ago. The Empire is dead; the Empire failed; the Order has risen to accomplish what it could not. He longs viciously in that moment to track Ren down from whatever sad little corner of the galaxy he’s traipsed off to and make him suffer all this inanity alongside him, but he’s well aware that if he did he’d have to fill in a freighter’s worth of bloody reparation forms for all the equipment Ren would trash in his wake.

Their final day is to be spent reconsidering the Order’s long-term military strategy. Normally this would bring Hux no small amount of pleasure, but he’s so fed up with the lot of them that he finds himself sulking like an overgrown child, speaking only when directly spoken to. It takes until the morning break for him to get his act together, and after three very strong cups of caf he scolds himself for behaving so like Ren and determines to actually take part.

In some regards there is little to practically discuss. If Juka can secure them control of the shipyards on Kuat, then their recent problems supplying and maintaining the fleet will be resolved. Hux has already voiced his concerns about the conditioning programme to general disdain, an experience he has no desire to repeat. The main concern, aside from the perennial problem of officer recruitment, centres around whether or not there is justification for replacing Starkiller Base.

Part of it is frankly his colleagues’ inability to think independently. The Emperor had built the Death Star; Snoke had commissioned Starkiller; thus it is paramount that they continue the trend and build something enormous and deadly. Hux had devoted years of his life to the creation of Starkiller and it brought him no small amount of grief to see it lost, but they are already stretched so thin. But his view, once voiced, is met with the same derisive scorn.

“Your opinion is noted, General Hux,” Maro says coldly. “But the advantages of having such a powerful threat serve as recompense for the drain on resources. The weapon is a definite priority.”

“Starkiller took thirty years to construct,” Forthknight interjects, with a thin glare in Hux’s direction as if this too were his fault. “That’s without even considering our lack of a suitable new location. A model on the old Imperial design would be much swifter.”

“And I suppose you have a trillion credits and a vast kyber crystal at your disposal?” Vake sneers.

“I believe Vader was himself capable of locating kyber seams,” Solaku murmurs. “Perhaps that is something for which Lord Ren could be put to use – when he returns.”

So that’s it, then, Hux thinks, the dull waves of the ensuing argument breaking over him. The First Order wins the war, and their response is to build a Death Star and brainwash idiots into manning it. It’s so pedestrian, so dull, so inefficient. Perhaps he gave these tired old men too much credit when he believed they were worthy of sharing his victory.

Juka’s hand rests lightly on his shoulder, jolting him back to the present. The meeting is adjourned. “Come on,” Juka says, smiling a little. “Let’s get something to eat.”

Outside the chamber, Maro is waiting to pounce. “I believe you owe an apology to one of our dearest allies,” he says coldly. Maro pulls himself up to his somewhat chubby full height; the buttons on his uniform groan under the pressure. “Carth Matterweaver – ” he begins.

“Is just a man, General,” Hux interrupts, utterly out of patience. “He is not Sith, he is not a colleague, he is not even a member of the Order. He is a chandler. You may have negotiated some nepotistic relationship with him, but I have not.”

Maro’s eye visibly twitches. “If he withdraws support – ”

“Then he’s a fool,” Hux snaps. “War or not, we still have a galaxy’s worth of equipment to buy. But I will not allow him any greater deference than I do any of our suppliers. I suggest you do likewise.”

With that Hux walks off, leaving Maro spluttering with indignation in his wake. That was badly done, he thinks crossly to himself as he marches to the end of the corridor and towards the front gates. Perhaps he should take some time away after all. It won’t do to let his temper get the better of him like this. The last thing the Order needs presently is another Kylo Ren.

Quick footsteps echo behind him, and Hux is worried for a moment that Maro is seeking revenge; but it’s only Juka, grinning ear to ear. “That was something,” he says cheerfully as he draws level.

Hux waves a hand irritably. “I have no interest in their machinations,” he mutters; there is at least some truth in it. They exit the Palace proper, skipping down the steps towards the wide courtyard and the gate into the city beyond. He shouldn’t stray out of the premises, but frankly he’d kill for a long walk in the fresh air and a decent dewback steak.

“I have to say,” Juka replies, keeping up with ease, “that surprises me.”

“Does it?”

“You would not be General at thirty-four if you lacked ambition,” Juka says.

He has a point, Hux knows. “The only position I see now that is higher than mine is that of Supreme Leader,” Hux replies coolly. “And I assure you that nothing could bring me greater displeasure.”

They come to a halt at the bottom of the staircase ten yards from the Palace gate, and Hux runs out of steam. It would be extremely silly for him to swan off into the capital the day after an unknown assailant tried to murder him, and the calmer, more rational part of his brain knows this all too well. “I knew your father a little,” Juka says, halting alongside him. “You are quite different, I think.”

Hux glances at him, fiddling crossly with his gloves. “I’m sorry?”

“Oh, I didn’t intend it pejoratively,” Juka replies, hands spread in contrition. “I merely suspect he would have torn Ren’s throat out with his teeth to get his job, whereas you seem interested in something different. I am not sure if that makes you more stupid or more clever.”

Hux can’t think of a witty answer. He becomes vaguely aware of a little Captain bobbing anxiously a few steps behind them, back in the direction they’ve come. “What is it?” Hux snaps. “Can’t you all keep to your orders for five minutes without my supervision?”

“Sorry, sir,” the Captain stammers, looking panicked and barely old enough to be wearing his uniform. “It’s just – Lord Ren’s ship has arrived.”

The expression on his face must be something; Juka, damn him, gets one look at it and laughs.

The Captain leads him swiftly back to the council chamber; from this Hux can only surmise that Ren hasn’t yet appointed himself a throne room. It’s still a little strange, Hux will admit, to see him without the mask. The weak sunlight filters in through the high arcing windows and illuminates his unfamiliar profile handsomely. “Apologies, my lord,” Hux says, dropping instantly onto one knee and bowing his head. “I was only just informed of your arrival.”

“Stand,” Ren replies. Hux complies, squashing fiercely down the little bubble of resentment and fury that still swells within his breast whenever he hears his command. “Someone tried to kill you.”

Hux clears his throat, embarrassed. “That’s a little melodramatic.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t trust your judgement,” Ren says coolly. He gestures away to one side, and a figure steps out of the shadows; tall, silent, clad wholly in black. “They are known as Talak Ren. I have assigned them to protect you.” Hux tries and fails not to stare. The Knight is masked, as Ren used to be, though they stand a little shorter than their Master. He finds himself wondering if he’s brought one for every general. “Do you know any sign?”

“What?” Hux says blithely, still a little distracted. “No.”

“They’re mute,” Ren explains. “Rendered so by slavers as a child.”

Hux frowns. “How do you communicate?” he asks, and then fights a flush when Ren quirks one eyebrow and he feels like a fool. “Oh, yes, right.” He nods sharply, intent upon regaining his composure. “I’ll acquire some.”

Talak signs a brief gesture with one hand; Ren’s mouth twitches into something like a smile. “They say they are pleased to meet you.”

“Well,” Hux says evenly. “Excellent. Likewise, I’m sure.” Hux glances at Ren. “Shall I recall the council, my lord?”

Ren nods once, fixing his gaze back out of the open window. Hux bows, glances between Ren and Talak, and heads for the corridor to find the Captain who brought him here. Damn the man and his tedious flare for the dramatic, Hux finds himself cursing, and then hopes wincingly that Ren didn’t hear him think it.

It brings Hux no small amount of pleasure to watch these two worlds collide. Ren, as disinterested in diplomacy and bureaucracy as it is possible to be, but utterly determined that he should get his own way; and Hux’s peers, who carry diplomacy as their lifeblood and are moulded fiercely in the ways of an Empire Ren perceives as irrelevant and outdated, for all that he venerates Vader. Hux is alone in standing as mediation, and from the looks Ren keeps casting his way he suspects their new Supreme Leader has deciphered this already.

The other generals each attempt to woo him, and Hux is delighted to see them all fall short. One by one they offer their accomplishments up to him like precious gifts forged in the hearts of suns, and Ren looks at each of them in turn and concisely conveys that such excellent work is merely to be expected of them. When he doesn’t look unimpressed he looks bored, and Hux can feel the seething dislike rolling off the others without any help from the Force.

It’s infuriating Maro the most; he, after all, had worked directly under Vader. “I wonder if you might honour us with your opinions on the makeup of this council, my lord,” Maro says, visibly attempting to master his own temper. “Perhaps you have some suggestions for how to improve it.”

Ren glances at him, impassive. “I approve of the measures General Hux has taken,” he says flatly.

Forthknight clears his throat. “Far be it from me to impose, my lord,” he begins, “But maybe a new title might be fitting for its members? Something to distinguish us from your other loyal generals?”

Maro perks up in obvious agreement; he’s always been so desperately fond of trophies. “What was the word you used, General Hux?” he asks, sliding Hux a deceptively kindly look. “Seneschal?”

“I’ll think about it,” Ren says calmly. Hux is almost giddy with glee.

Juka shifts a little in his chair. “Perhaps you have questions about what we’ve discussed, my lord.”

Ren shakes his head. “General Hux has kept me sufficiently informed.”

“Has he,” Solaku interjects flatly. “Well, I am sure Snoke would be thrilled to see the two of you working to a common cause at last.”

“My lord.”

Solaku blinks. “Excuse me?”

Something in the room begins to change. Hux knows it; Hux has felt it a thousand times before, the way the air crackles with power as Ren begins to draw upon the Force. Ren has straightened a little in his chair, and his eyes have turned glassy and black. In that moment he almost seems inhuman. Hux, accustomed to the transformation through experience alone, is the only one around the table able to save face.

“I am your leader now,” Ren says with a voice like menace incarnate, rich with the soft, familiar lilt that always presses ice-cold fingers down Hux’s spine. “You will address me as such.”

Solaku hurriedly bows his head. “Apologies, my lord.”

As quickly as the moment had come, it is gone. Ren nods once, gets to his feet, and says, “With me, General Hux.” Hux takes the time to drop a fleeting bow to the council before he turns and follows gleefully in Ren’s billowing wake.

They walk through the Palace in silence; Hux realises that Ren is heading for the shuttle bay, buried deep in the enclave’s belly where it can be afforded the most protection. Surely he can’t have come traipsing halfway across the galaxy just to make his generals shiver with fear like silly schoolgirls, though Hux will admit there is a certain benefit to the strategy.

Ren’s shuttle squats in the middle of the courtyard like some evil insect, wings spearing up towards the clear blue sky with jagged menace. As always Hux cannot help but admire the design, arrogant as it may be. He wonders if Ren knows Snoke himself asked Hux to fall back on his rusty expertise and draft up something fittingly frightening for his new apprentice, all those years ago.

“Snoke did rather go out of his way to make us loathe one another,” Hux finds himself saying, glancing over at Ren as they reach the courtyard’s entrance.

“He knew what would happen,” Ren replies, his voice impassive. “If you and I became allies.”

“Well, yes,” Hux admits.

Ren pauses under the great archway to the bay. “Is that what we are, now?” he asks, after considering Hux for a moment in a way that makes his hackles rise. “Allies?”

The question is hopelessly loaded; Hux falls on his instincts and bows his head in an automatic gesture of deference. “We’re certainly not equals, my lord.”

Wrong answer. Ren’s face flits rapidly to and from an expression Hux can’t quite place, back to his usual aloof sneer. “That’s not what I asked,” he replies, and marches off towards his ship.

Hux watches him go. He has never been quite able to predict what Ren will do; his myopia has now developed from infuriating to perilous. He has spent the best part of two decades making himself indispensible to Snoke. He is increasingly aware that he must now find a way to become indispensable to Kylo Ren.

Hux decides against returning to the council chamber, taking his own shuttle back up to the _Supremacy_ instead. He fails to see what it would accomplish; they all have their orders, and he certainly has no desire to linger any longer in their company. He’d far rather be here, watching the salvage team rip their flagship apart and debate over the recycle value of durasteel wiring. Damn those pissing anarchists and their ridiculous hopes. It will be many, many years before Hux ever has the pleasure of presiding over such a beautiful ship again.

Behind him, a familiar little voice clears his throat; Hux turns to see Mitaka, back straight and hand up in a salute. “What are you doing here?” Hux asks, surprised. “You’re assigned to the _Finalizer_.”

“I asked to be transferred, sir,” Mitaka says a little meekly, lowering his hand. “Wattin’s a tyrant and he hates me.” We have that in common, Hux wants to say, but it would be both unprofessional and undiplomatic. “This was sent to the Palace for you, sir,” he adds. “I had it checked over just in case.”

He hands Hux the wooden box, its surface warm from where he’s held it. Réillata must have tried to reach him, he realises, and he feels a fresh little stab of regret that he’s deprived of her company for the foreseeable while. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he says, slipping it into the pocket of his greatcoat. At least he has something of her to carry with him that didn’t die on Starkiller Base.

It takes them a dozen days or so to strip the _Supremacy_ of what she can give, save for the idling engines required to crash her into the ground. Naboo won’t do at all for that, of course; it would make a display of their failure in a most distasteful way. They plot a course to Xagobah, limping along while shuttles and barges dart to and from the dying ship with their piles of treasure like vultures at a corpse.

It gives him time to become acquainted with Talak Ren. All Hux truly knows is that they’re humanoid; in all the time they spend lurking at Hux’s side, they never once take off their mask. Hux remembers a time when Ren himself had been much the same, when the officers had taken bets as to whether or not he was human. They remind Hux somewhat of Juka in their demeanour, but otherwise they’re quite unlike anyone else Hux has ever met.

Hux swiftly learns a few basic signs; yes, no, maybe, stop, safe, danger, stay, go, please. There’s no need for him to study the language in great depth, as he is perfectly capable of voicing his questions and ensuring they’re phrased in a manner to which Talak can easily reply; but in truth it interests him, and it’s a welcome opportunity to get away from watching the ship getting cannibalised by gleeful opportunists from across the fleet. The grammar especially is fascinating, particularly to Hux’s engineer-trained mind, though there’s almost nothing on the Order’s database for him to learn from and Talak finds much of it impossible to explain.

When the time comes, Talak is with him. Hux stands on the bridge of the _Actuator_ , hands clasped behind his ramrod-back, and watches the final few escape shuttles flitting from the _Supremacy_ ’s bay, tiny specks against the vast black. Talak’s hand, still clad in its leather glove, rests briefly on Hux’s shoulder; it’s the first time he thinks they’ve ever touched. Hux finds himself worrying his carefully-stifled sorrow has bled through into his expression, but Talak, still stood at his side, signs _no_.

Hux stares at them. “You can hear what I’m thinking,” he realises after a moment, an awful chill of clarity that squirms like a trapped animal at the pit of his stomach.

 _Yes_ , is Talak’s reply.

Hux clears his throat, resisting the urge to shift nervously whilst still in full view of his men. “Always?”

 _No_ , Talak signs, and then gestures between them to demonstrate proximity.

Can Ren? Hux wonders. Perhaps it works the same. Hux supposes it must take concentration, or the simple fact of being on a dreadnought would be taxing beyond belief. “We’re ready, sir,” Mitaka says as he reaches the two of them, his voice trembling a little with sentiment. Normally Hux would chide him for it, but he can’t quite bring himself to.

Hux nods once. At the panel to his left the engineer sends the signal for the _Supremacy_ to fire her engines, and Hux watches in a terrible, grim silence as she falls gracefully down to her death on the moon below. He’s breathing a little heavily by the time it’s done; he forces himself back into something approaching impassive, even as tiny fire-flecked explosions are still flashing into life and her great, sweeping hull is still falling to the cavern floor.

“Should I contact the _Finalizer_ , sir?” Mitaka asks.

Hux shakes his head. He’ll be damned if he goes crawling off to Wattin to beg for his own ship back this quickly. “No,” he says, his voice cool and calm. “Plot a course for Kamino.”

The _Actuator_ drops out of hyperspace just beyond the Rishi maze. Hux has never taken the trouble to venture this far into the Outer Rim, and he half expects it to be populated exclusively by dragons. They make their way slowly through interstellar space, the ship’s map not wholly sure of the direction she should take, and Hux is grateful to have the time to consider what in the stars he’s going to find.

Kamino went quiet decades ago, almost before Hux had even been born; after the disgrace of the clone revolt the Empire had withdrawn their finances and banned any other force from using their technology on humans. Still, the Kaminoans had plenty of other methods of generating revenue, and they had kept to themselves long before the Republic had reached out. The history of how the Clone Army came to be built is predictably messy, as are many things around the fall of the Republic, and in truth Hux doubts there’s a man alive in the galaxy who knows what the Kaminoans had done before or since.

After a day, the planet begins to come into view of the long-range sensors. They register no significant land-masses and no sign of terrestrial life, but a dip below the ocean’s surface reveals a teeming mixture from microbial to giant. Perhaps it’s only because he’s just departed from Naboo, but Hux finds himself hoping absently that the locals are nothing like the blasted gungans.

Hux is alone in his miserable little quarters when a request comes through for his presence on the bridge. Elbow-deep in Solaku’s pissy ramblings about M’Bothi hospitality, he is grateful for the distraction. “We’re being hailed, sir,” Mitaka explains as he steps onto the bridge, Talak as always one neat pace behind, glancing quickly around for any sign of hostile activity.

Hux frowns, drawing level with him at the viewport. “By the planet?”

“Not exactly, sir,” Mitaka sheepishly replies. Kylo Ren’s enormous hologram head bursts into view above them, and Hux instantly drops into a bow.

 _“My hyperdrive is damaged,”_ Ren says, his flat voice tinged with irritation _. “No one in this backwater has the parts.”_

Hux straightens up. “Where are you, my lord?”

_“Tatooine.”_

Vader had been born on Tatooine, Hux vaguely recalls. It’s a nasty planet in the middle of nowhere with little else likely to bring it to Ren’s attention. “We’ll chart a course at once,” he declares, gesturing to Mitaka to comply. The mystery of the Kaminoans can wait.

With the aid of the nearby hyperspace lane, it’s no time at all before the _Actuator_ reaches Tattooine. It’s wholly unappealing from orbit, that ghastly mucky beige of most rock planets, and Hux sends down a shuttle with a new hyperdrive instead of braving the sandy nightmare himself. He’s hopeful, although not confident, that Ren isn’t petty enough to take offence.

His efforts clearly aren’t enough; when the shipful of engineers returns Ren’s shuttle is in tow behind. Hux goes to meet him in the hangar bay, a poky little thing barely capable of hosting two or three shuttles abreast, and finds himself worrying nervously about the _Actuator_ ’s substandard equipment.

Mitaka is with him and Talak as they wait for the shuttle to dock, flicking through the engineers’ report on his datapad. “They couldn’t isolate the problem,” he explains. “It looks like sabotage.”

Hux bites back a sigh. Likely Ren pissed off a local and was forced to suffer the consequences. He certainly looks in a foul mood when he stomps down the ramp, gesturing impatiently for Hux to follow him to the bridge with little ceremony. Hux finds himself mildly surprised; he had at least expected Ren would greet his Knight with some display of camaraderie. “I apologise for our lack of proficiency – ”

“It’s fine,” Ren says shortly, and Hux briefly fears for the wellbeing of his as-of-yet unblemished durasteel panelling. “I’ll commandeer your vessel instead.”

Oh, good, Hux thinks miserably. An extended visitation. “You have a purpose in mind, my lord?”

They’ve reached the bridge; Ren swaggers towards the viewport, scowling out into space. “Do you know Jedha?”

“Not personally,” Hux admits. “Horrid lump of rock at the edge of the Unknown Regions, I think. May I ask why?”

“I need to go there. I’ve received intelligence of vestiges of Resistance troops.”

Hux hesitates. He remembers all-too-well how poorly Ren has received his advice in the past. “Surely a destroyer would be more fitting, my lord?”

Ren throws him a look. “You were closest,” he says flatly.

Hux nods once. “Very well.” Mitaka, visibly attempting to look unflustered, staggers through the entranceway; he’s never been quite able to keep up with Ren’s ridiculous strides. “Lieutenant,” Hux says, turning to address him, “See that we change course as soon as convenient. Lord Ren is assuming command of the _Actuator_. My lord, the officer quarters are regrettably subpar to what you’re accustomed to – ”

“They will suffice,” Ren interrupts, and stalks back off the bridge. Hux and Mitaka watch him go, standing at parade rest until he’s out of the door, pausing only for a brief, inaudible exchange with Talak, guarding the entranceway.

Mitaka clears his throat. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Hux glances at him. “Granted.”

“This all seems rather strange,” he says.

Hux sighs. “Indeed,” he agrees wearily. “But sadly with Lord Ren things always seem to be.”

“Just like old times,” Mitaka murmurs so only he can hear, and Hux lets out an undignified snort.

On a ship as small as the _Actuator_ , the officers’ billets are all rammed together at the back of the ship between the bridge and the quarterdeck; Hux hopes that it’s for this reason alone that he and Ren run into one another when Hux next retires for the day, their path to Jedha charted and the repairs to Ren’s shuttle progressing satisfactorily. Seemingly on his way back from the mess, Ren stares at him coldly like he has no business being there; and then he looks taken aback when Hux lets himself into the rooms adjacent to his after a short salute. Hux is still wholly surprised by his soft knock on the door a few moments after, though not at the way Ren barges his way in before Hux has the chance to answer.

Ren glances around his little quarters, his expression indecipherable. He had never visited Hux’s private rooms on the _Supremacy_ , and Hux would be the first to say how starkly those had outmatched these; he’s lucky to have his own ‘fresher and a tiny sitting-room adjacent to his bedroom. Only four or five sets exist on a ship as small as this.

“Do you require my assistance, my lord?” Hux asks after Ren fails to speak, but he shakes his head. “Then a drink, perhaps?” he adds, mainly out of the ingrained habit of hospitality; he’s surprised when Ren nods his assent. Thank fuck he picked up some decent brandy when the docked for fuel on Ryndellia.

Ren accepts the proffered glass in silence. Just as Hux is casting about for some inane topic of conversation to which he won’t take offence, Ren clears his throat and says, “They took away the _Finalizer_.”

Hux swallows back the silly comment he’s composing about the weather on Tatooine. “My lord?”

“They took your ship,” Ren clarifies. There’s some choked emotion in his voice that Hux can’t quite identify. Pity, perhaps. It doesn’t sound like a gloat.

Hux smiles emptily. “Technically, I believe she was yours.”

“Why did you let them?”

Hux glances at him, surprised by the naivety in the question. “Frankly, my lord,” he admits after a pause, “It was less than I deserved.” Now that they’re alone, Hux can’t help but notice something different in Ren’s demeanour; he seems transformed somehow, calmer, more focused. “Did you find the _Falcon_?”

Ren considers him for a moment. “Yes.”

Hux hesitates, waiting for Ren to elaborate and then doubting his right to ask more. “And the girl?”

Ren’s eyes are black and cold. “Dealt with,” he says.

Hux feels that familiar punching thrill of triumph, rocketing through his body like a surge of adrenaline. “Excellent,” he says, savouring the word, his mouth splitting into a vicious smile. He holds up his glass. “To victory, then.”

Ren nods once. “To victory,” he replies.

Though any general of the First Order has to know his history of the Empire’s victories, Hux believes that few have studied it to the extent he has. He doubts it’s common knowledge that the Death Star was first fired on Jedha; the Empire-approved story was of a great and instant triumph in the destruction of Alderaan. Not least in part, of course, because they’d had to turn it on their own archives at Scarif shortly after. Never one for spending his free time conversing with his peers or running laps of the recreation fields, Hux suspects only he had spent his leisure time unearthing Empire propaganda, Republican histories, and occasionally even a few original files from deep in the Academy’s library. But he has always seen history as a whetstone for tactics; people are predictable, or at least the past can help structure a framework around their behaviour.

All of this means that when the _Actuator_ drops out of hyperspace above the lifeless, boiling mass of a moon that used to be Jedha, Hux has good reason to believe only he knows what that barren waste of foaming magma actually represents. Beautiful, he finds himself thinking, much as he had the first time he’d taken life in battle, or looked out of the viewfinder at the floating spacedust that had once been Hosnian Prime. That force, that power, that efficiency, that control. Perhaps one day he’ll have all that again.

Hux pushes all thoughts of his own ambition out of his mind when Ren stalks onto the bridge. “Where precisely do you wish to go, my lord?” Hux asks, turning to drop a brief bow. “My men are in the process of preparing the trooper transports – ”

“No troopers,” Ren interrupts.

Hux blinks. “I’m sorry, my lord?”

“I need to be subtle.” The look Ren gives him is ice-cold. “Are you doubting my proficiency?”

Hux dips his head. “Not at all, my lord,” he says smoothly. “The entire might of the First Order is at your disposal to use as you see fit.”

Something about this seems to amuse him. “Including you?” he asks, after a pause.

“I’m not sure I follow, my lord,” Hux says slowly.

“Why don’t you come with me?” Ren asks coolly. “If you’re so concerned about my wellbeing. It’s been a while since you’ve had any experience in the field,” he adds, something like a smile playing around his mouth. “You were trained in covert operations, weren’t you?”

Surely he hasn’t read my file, Hux thinks a little feverishly. He nods once. “If that’s what you prefer, my lord, I would be happy to comply.”

“Good,” he replies. “You have thirty minutes,” he says, and glides back off the bridge.

Hux watches him go with a distant feeling of utter disbelief. “Lieutenant Mitaka,” he says eventually, “You have the conn.”

Mitaka nods. “Yes, sir.”

“And Lieutenant – ” He shoots Mitaka a brief, despairing look. “Try to make sure he hasn’t murdered me.”

It’s such a long time since Hux has been involved in a field operation that he’s almost forgotten the protocol. He could refuse, of course; he could tell Ren bluntly that such a diversion would be a waste of his time and energy. But what else is he going to do, stranded out here at the edge of the known galaxy overseeing nothing more than a jumped-up freighter? It seems almost more degrading to hover dutifully in orbit as Ren charges around on the moon below, like the miserable little ship Hux has been given command of is nothing more than his interplanetary taxi. Ren had thrown down the request like a challenge, and frankly Hux could well use the opportunity to prove he’s not as useless as both Ren and his own colleagues clearly seem to think.

He finds Talak training in the room adjoining the armoury, still clad head to toe in black as they gracefully perform one movement of their saber practice after another. “We have a mission,” he says, once Talak notices him and pauses their work. “Ren wants my assistance on whatever task he needs to perform below. We are to meet him in the hangar bay in thirty minutes. Do you have any questions?”

 _Yes_ , Talak signs, and holds up one finger.

“Why?” Hux guesses, and Talak nods. “I’ve no idea,” he admits, sighing a little. “You’re better off asking him yourself.”

Covert, Ren had said; so Hux takes the opportunity to change into one of the few civilian outfits he owns. The surface of Jedha is little more than a toxic, roiling mass of molten rock spewing out various poisonous gases, so protective gear is crucial. It’s a shame he can’t take his greatcoat, but it’s too recognisable by half, and he’s too much the image of an Order general to convincingly claim he took it off a kill. He pats down the pockets, finds the little box of cigarras and smiles. There’s room for that in his pack, he decides. His service weapon is also regrettably recognisable, but there’s no chance to replace it now and he’s not walking onto a damn Resistance-sympathetic planet without a blaster. He’ll have to pick up another one when he can.

Hux pauses to look himself over in the mirror before he leaves. He’s stood far too stiffly; he was taught how to change his bearing and mask the harsh rhotics of his accent, but it’s a skill he’s made little use of since leaving the Academy. The pomade in his hair he can at least change. He grabs a towel from the ‘fresher and strips out what he can.

With that, his thirty minutes are up. Hux casts a quick look around his poky little rooms, trying and failing to think of anything else he might need, and heads towards the shuttle bay where Ren is waiting for him. He too is clad in unfamiliar civilian dress; he looks Hux over as he walks towards him, from the soft mess of his hair to the ill-fitting clothes hanging off his form, and nods his approval. They can’t take Ren’s shuttle; it’s far too distinctive. Ren has requisitioned a trooper transport for their purposes instead.

Ren makes as if to climb inside; Hux holds up his hand, glancing around for Talak. “One moment,” he says, and just as he does he catches sight of Talak entering across the bay. They’re wearing a loose robe in grubby brown that Hux half-recognises from old holovids of the Republic, their face still concealed behind a cowl and some kind of cloth mask. Hux wonders if this level of secrecy is demanded of Ren’s Knights, or if it’s a personal preference.

Ren’s jaw clenches with irritation. He stares at Talak making their way across the hangar with what Hux could swear is profound dislike. “They won’t be necessary,” Ren says.

“You made them my bodyguard, my lord,” Hux counters shortly. “Where I go, they go.”

“Fine,” Ren snaps, climbing up onto the craft. It’s nice to know the title of Supreme Leader hasn’t ironed out all of his childish tantrums, Hux finds himself thinking, and bites down a snort.

“Ready?” he asks Talak as they draw near, and Talak signs _yes_ in reply. They walk together up the ramp into the transport, and as they do Hux can’t help but feel like its black interior looms over them like the belly of some enormous beast, luring them into its depths.

Ren hovers the craft twenty klicks above the moon’s surface. A few patches of the barren ground have coalesced into solid rock, but the surface is constantly shifting with unseen currents, and vents on all sides churn out near-invisible clouds of lethal gas all around them. Hux had indulged Ren’s sulky silence through the journey; but seeing the hellish landscape Ren has determined they must traverse he decides he’s had enough. “Perhaps it would be appropriate for you to share something of our purpose here,” he says, watching as Ren scans the horizon through the macrobinoculars for prying eyes.

Ren lowers the binoculars to glare. “You’re forgetting something in the manner of your address, General.”

Hux grins. “We’re undercover,” he reminds Ren cheerfully. “Protocol dictates that we must uphold the act until back in Order territory. We don’t know who might be listening.”

For a moment Ren looks utterly mutinous. “Fine,” he mutters, scowling, shoving the binoculars back into his pack. “I’ve been working to track down the survivors from Crait,” he says. “Jedha has always had sympathies for the Resistance and a band of them have sought protection in the subterranean kyber mines south of here.”

They must be desperate, Hux thinks, to seek out salvation in such a perilous place. It is possible that areas of the subcrust are sheltered enough to provide sanctuary, but such safety would always be precarious indeed. “How many?”

“A dozen,” Ren hazards. “I planned to gather more information through direct surveillance before acting. Kyber seams play havoc with most instruments, and the moon itself is hardly stable enough to provide reliable readings.”

Hux frowns. “And why not flush the place out with the _Actuator’s_ battalion?”

It’s clear from Ren’s expression that he’s never existed within a structure where his tactics are questioned; he’s gone from mutinous to murderous. “The subcrust mines are a maze,” he answers flatly. “Troopers would just send them all scurrying into the dark.”

Hux nods once. “Very well,” he concedes, gesturing in what he thinks is the vague direction of south. “Lead the way.”

Ren glowers at him for a moment as if contemplating whether to spitefully refuse, then huffs out a short, sharp breath and takes up the controls again. That’s enough, Hux admonishes himself, watching as Ren skilfully guides the craft closer to the moon’s surface and scouts out somewhere to land. For all that Ren might be a pain in the arse, they are alone in hostile territory together. If they don’t co-operate one of them is at risk of biting the dust, and somehow Hux thinks that’s very unlikely to be Ren.

The gaping maw of the subterranean entrance comes into view just as the light begins to fade. They fly on until they’re about five klicks out, taking advantage of the increasingly rocky terrain to tuck the craft behind a prong with a sheltered line of sight towards its entrance. As with everything on Jedha, the mine is pockmarked with evidence of its history, the natural seam of the cave entrance surrounded by scars in the rock where quarrying equipment once stood. Hux watches the entrance through the macrobinoculars as the other two leave the craft and scout out the area; there’s no sign of life visible, but he supposes it would be a miracle if there were.

“No sign of activity,” Hux informs Ren as he rejoins him at the viewport of the craft, tugging off his breathing apparatus. “But if you wish to launch an offensive we should wait until after that blows over.” Ren looks out towards the methane storm in the east, encroaching rapidly and thick with angry sparks of blue-green lightning. The flashes of light show up an odd glittering appearance to the ground between them and the entrance, shimmering in the haze. “What is that on the surface?”

“Kyber,” Ren replies. “Too small to be used. This whole area is covered in it. The air is practically singing.” Hux looks again at the sea of shining shards, rendered almost demonic by the storm. He feels nothing, hears nothing. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was nothing more than broken glass.

The storm hits perhaps half an hour later, the trooper transport bolting itself firmly into the crevices of the little bluff and riding out its fury with ease. Ren is watching the cave entrance whilst Talak keeps an eye to their rear, and Hux, bereft of anything to do other than monitor the craft’s atmospheric instruments, permits himself the luxury of a single cigarra as he does. Ren glances over at him when he picks up the smell, surprise obvious on his face. “I didn’t think you had any vices,” he says, after a moment. “They’re so… inefficient.”

Hux throws him a look. “I’m not a droid,” he says, perhaps a little more crossly than is strictly deserved. It doesn’t do to let Ren know when he hits a nerve.

Ren returns to his vigil. “Get some sleep,” he says. “We’ll swap before dawn.”

Hux sleeps in fitful bursts, dreaming of the ruby-red bolt that had tore from his Weapon into the dark; that same ruby-red singing its way out of Ren’s saber, his big black eyes glittering with the light of it. The two images together, rolling and writhing until they become one and the same, beautiful and terrifying and cruel.

It is still dark when Hux is abruptly woken, Talak’s hand shooting out of the night to shake his shoulder roughly and force him back to consciousness. “What – ?” Hux manages, before Talak’s other hand finds its way across his mouth, stifling his speech.

 _Danger_ , Talak signs, _danger_ –

The world around them is totally dark, the storm long since past. The silence is eerie, unending, and Hux realises with a stab of horror that it is also unnatural; the transport’s engines are down. No radiation protection, no atmospheric filter. No life support. He shoots up off the bunk, scrabbling for the protective gear kept at the rear of the craft.

The door is already open. Hux steps down the ramp, heart in his mouth, trying to both look around for danger and read the system report on his vitals. “What is it?” he hisses through the mask as he joins Ren, crouched under the edge of the jagged outcrop and peering towards the entrance. “What happened to the transport?”

“I heard something,” Ren murmurs, and steps out beyond the rock’s protection. That familiar ghoulish light from Ren’s saber bursts into life beside him, a gash of bright blood alone against the dark until Talak’s dutifully follows. Hux sees nothing but their paired silhouettes against the skyline, their backs to him as they face out towards the mine en garde. Hux’s fingers fumble eternally with the straps around his blaster, but in time he is on his feet with it in hand, feeling instantly stronger with its familiar metal pressed against his fingertips.

They stand as a trio in the dark, backs together, facing out in each direction, listening hard for any sign of life. Perhaps they were mistaken, Hux finds himself thinking, as the minutes grow longer and the stifling silence remains unbroken. Perhaps it was just some blasted malformed creature scuffling around under the protection of the night.

Hux never learns quite what happens next. Entirely from nowhere, a slamming weight of nothingness crashes through his mind and knocks him out, as though he’s been brusquely doused with ice-cold water from above. He’s unconscious before he even hits the ground.

As swiftly as the darkness had arrived, it dissipates. Hux jumps upright with a shout, his heart pounding in his chest as his hand scrabbles futilely for the blaster at his hip – gone. He’s unarmed. He’s sat on a soft cot in an underground room, thin white light bleeding through a tiny window at the very top of the wall. The walls feel and look like icy stone; there’s no thrum of a distant engine rattling through the freezing air.

“Easy,” Ren says, and only in that moment does Hux realise he’s not alone, glancing across to see him sat in a chair across the room. “You’re safe.”

Hux swallows roughly, finds his throat sore and dry from lack of use. “Where’s Talak?”

“Close,” Ren reassures him. “They’re fine.”

Hux rubs at his eyes, casting back to his foggy final memory, that red flash of Ren’s saber against the oncoming dark. “Were we attacked?”

Ren tilts his head. “Not exactly,” he says, and the oddest change comes across his face. Something has been niggling at Hux ever since he’d jerked awake; something different about Ren, altered in the slope of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the ease with which he’d arranged himself in the low-slung chair. The expression he now wears completes the oddness of his look; it’s a soft, gentle thing that’s wholly out of place on Kylo Ren. He looks calm, composed, at peace. He looks like a stranger walking around in Kylo Ren’s skin.

It’s not Kylo Ren, Hux realises with pure, righteous fury. It’s Ben Solo.

Hux swears.


	2. a mob to a king

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **this part contains two reasonably graphic scenes of torture and one scene referencing child abuse.** it is all physical and not at all sexual. for a full description of what that entails, please see the end note for this chapter. if you would like any particular questions answered please do [drop me an ask](https://alichay.tumblr.com/ask) on tumblr.

When Hux was a boy, he’d been warned about the tricks of the Jedi. He’d been told of their capacity to reach into a person’s mind and subject them to their will, and nothing had filled him with greater horror. He had nightmares of him, his mother, his teachers being compelled to take up arms and strike one another down, brainless and unknowing. Used as a blunt tool to achieve someone else’s ends, discarded like so much rotten meat once the task is done.

The selfsame fear dogs him now. Bound to the rickety wooden chair, Hux knows the air in the little room must be rank with it. “You could just tell me,” Solo says, his voice soft and tired and spitefully kind. “I don’t want to make this unpleasant.”

“Don’t be a child,” Hux sneers, throwing him a look of deep contempt. “I can have no information of use.”

Solo shrugs. “I’m not interested in what you know,” he admits. “I’m interested in what you fear.”

A wave of horror ripples down Hux’s spine; Solo’s smile turns markedly less warm. He raises his hand.

A tangled mix of the true and the imagined hurtles before his eyes, the real and the nightmare. The images sear through his mind like phantasms, and the pain, _stars_ , the pain, electric and all-consuming, vicious and unrelenting like nothing Hux has ever imagined. They lash at him like lightning, hot sour bursts of agony with barely time to breathe between each bolt – the figure of his father in the doorway, gun in hand – his mother’s face, blue and black – Ilum, buckling under the blast – the face of the traitor, leading his peers – Réillata’s home on Naboo, wrecked and burning – Ren standing over him before Snoke’s throne, a knife in his hand – Ren’s black, corpselike form in the snow surrounded by blood –

– _stop_ , Hux screams, stop, stop –

The freezing little room catapults back into view. Solo stands maybe a foot away, breathing hard and covered in sweat. Hux, ice-cold and trembling hard enough to make the chair rattle, turns his head and throws up.

“Out of practice?” Hux sneers around his gasps. Solo clenches his jaw, snarls out a breath, and begins again.

Three times Hux resists. Three times Solo comes to his tiny cell and lashes him to the chair, scouring through his mind. Sometimes the ghouls Solo conjures linger long after he is gone; when Hux is curled up on his side against the freezing wall, shaking with the pain still ricocheting around his skull, his father sits in the corner of the room, flicking through the messages on his datapad. His mother is beside him, clacking her knitting-needles in time with Hux’s pulse. He wonders if he will be driven mad before he gives in.

After the third time, Talak comes to see him. Hux doesn’t recognise them at first; a stranger with long blue hair and beetle-black eyes ducks through the doorway and signs _hello_ , and Hux can’t help but stare. They come with food, good hot food which sends steam up into the frigid air, the best Hux has had since he arrived, and it takes all of his self-control not to wolf it down.

“Are you here to torture me?” Hux asks bluntly as soon as he’s finished eating. He should have asked before; Solo’s little sojourns into his mind always force him to empty his stomach. It would have been a shame to waste the stew.

Talak shakes their head. _Safe_ , they sign. They have that same softness about them that Solo has, stripped of whatever conflict was driving them to misery before.

“You’re not their prisoner,” Hux realises slowly. Talak nods. They make a complicated gesture, then scowl as they realise Hux won’t understand it; Hux finds himself smiling in reply. “You never did teach me more, did you?”

Talak smiles back, tilts their head. Hux doesn’t fully understand, but he can guess the meaning; _How about now?_

Hux’s smile fades. “Why not,” he concedes. The chill in the air is sinking through his clothes again, no longer banished by the warmth of the food, and with it comes the demons, the spectres waiting at the edge of his psyche. “There’s nothing else to do.”

After the fifth time, after Hux has vomited and fainted and come round as always, he opens his sore, gritty eyes to find Solo still there, sitting cross-legged on his bed across the room. Just as Hux is beginning to wonder if he’s trying for another round, Solo rubs his eyes, sighs deeply, and says, “I don’t understand.”

Hux snorts. “Of course you don’t,” he mutters spitefully, his voice horribly hoarse. “You’ve betrayed everything you’ve ever been a part of.”

Solo gives him a slow, contemplative look. “I don’t want to kill you.”

Hux can’t help it; he laughs. “Oh, don’t look like that,” he says when Solo seems offended. “You’ve wanted me dead since the day we met.”

Solo clenches his jaw and looks away, taking deep, steadying breaths until he’s mastered his temper. “I will break you,” he says, in time. “If you give me no choice.”

The idea fills Hux’s mind with delight. “What do your little rebel friends think of that?” he asks, gleeful. “Sweet, simpering Ben Solo torturing a man until his mind splits in half? How does your mother – ?”

Pressure clamps like a vice across his throat. “Don’t,” Solo snarls, the air around them crackling and swaying, thick with threat. Spots begin to dance at the edges of his vision, but Hux can’t stop grinning. Then, quite suddenly, the pressure goes; Solo composes himself; and Hux lurches forward, hacking in deep, choking breaths, regrettably too asphyxiated to act on his urge to laugh as Solo stalks childishly from the room.

Aside from Solo’s visitations, Hux is left alone. He is given few luxuries, barely a blanket to protect him against the chill, fed twice a day with foul rations, subjected to the use of a commode in the corner of the room dealt with sporadically by a tottering protocol droid. The cell is large enough to pace in but too small to stretch his legs, which twists him up with a restless energy he has little hope of banishing.

Talak does attempt to teach him more of their language, though with the ever-present cold and pain Hux has become a poor student. For all his gratitude for the distraction, it does nothing to squash Hux’s suspicion; He is well aware that even this shoddy band of terrorists would gladly use Talak’s kindness as a counterpoint to Solo’s cruelty. By the time Talak arrives with a grin from ear to ear and the little wooden box of cigarras Hux had long since thought lost, his paranoia seems wholly justified.

“Don’t imagine I’m gullible,” Hux says flatly as Talak offers him a light. “You won’t get anything out of me either.”

The look Talak gives him is somehow sad. _Safe_ , they sign. _Friend_.

Hux regards them for a long, slow moment, relishing the flavours of the rich tabac. “Then I want you to kill me,” he says bluntly.

Talak’s mouth drops open. _No_.

Hux sighs, taps off the ash straight onto the floor. “It’s only a matter of time before he gets what he wants from me,” he says, voice flat. “I assure you nothing could bring me greater joy than for him to fail in his endeavour.”

Talak signs something, fast and long and complicated, and then scowls when Hux’s ineptitude at reading it becomes clear. _Life is important_ , they put together, watching Hux’s face to see that he understands. _More important_.

Hux gives them a cold look. He’d never imagined a Knight of Ren to be so stupidly naïve. “The Order is important,” he retorts. “Life is nothing. Life is cheap.”

Talak’s face contorts in a rictus of horror. _No_ , they sign, shaking their head with vehemence. _No_.

Hux nods once. “Fine,” he says, looking away, the bitter taste of ash increasingly pronounced on his tongue. “Don’t come back here again.”

It’s common enough to be routine, Solo stomping into Hux’s cell and binding him to the creaky wooden chair just after nightfall; but this time, the final time, there’s a grim fury in Solo’s eyes that Hux recognises and dreads. He’s seen that look on his face before, the perfect, solidified expression of his determination and his rage.

He rips through Hux’s mind like a battlefield, cutting away with ice-hot fury any attempt Hux makes to hide or run. He’s hunting back through time, back, back to Jedha, to the _Actuator_ , to Naboo, searching for one particular moment, one memory. Before his arrival; before Hux was attacked; sat around the council table and discussing –

 _No_ , Hux feels himself snarl, and for one fleeting moment he wrenches back control, sends his mind spinning off to some irrelevancy, old Coruscanti shipping routes from the Imperial age. When Solo presses his attention again it’s with the full might of his power and his fury, and Hux is helpless to resist, his every atom wrenched in agony.

 _“Indulge my curiosity,”_ Maro says, swimming headily in and out of focus – _no_ , Hux shouts, thrashing around helpless as Solo, tasting blood in the water, ruthlessly hones in. _“Indulge my curiosity – what would – what you – you would have – first –_

 _“Indulge my curiosity,”_ Maro says. _“What would you have us do first?”_

Hux fights back with every shred of his being, his mind and soul buckling under the pain, but it’s no use. _“Begin decreasing our reliance on conditioned troops,”_ Hux hears himself say, and with that, the dam is broken. Solo takes everything.

Every fear, every frustration, every scrap of evidence he can of the Order’s weakness is pillaged unflinchingly from Hux’s mind, an unending horror of betrayal that Hux is utterly powerless to resist. In time, Solo is done, dropping out of his mind like a snapped thread; Hux instantly blacks out.

When he comes round Talak is there, cool fingers at his temple, attempting to undo some of the mutilation Solo has wrought. Hux can feel disparate memories and moments knitting together in his mind, staring out with glassy eyes as the image of a beautiful, red-lipped, dark-haired woman is joined with the name _Réillata_ , with the word _sister_. _Peace_ , he hears an unfamiliar voice say; Talak’s, he realises. _All will be well._

He falls down into darkness again.

Hux wakes to the sensation of hunger and fear, clean clothes soft against his clean skin. He bolts upright, shaking away the spiderwebs of painful sleep, and notices Solo in the chair, dragged to sit beside his bed.

The thought of Solo bathing and dressing him instantly fills Hux with disgust, but Solo shakes his head. “Torbin,” he quietly explains. “That’s Talak’s name,” he clarifies, seeing the blankness of Hux’s expression. “Their true name.”

For a moment Hux still cannot find words. Part of him wonders if it’s the enormity of the wound Solo tore through his mind. He feels as though the very soul of him has been ripped out, as if his limbs, his mind, his lungs all belong to another form. “I would have died,” he blurts suddenly, bitterly, newfound voice trembling on the words. “I would have _died_ – ”

“Hux – ” Solo interjects, and Hux strikes him, a backhanded slap across the broad plane of his cheek, hard enough to raise a livid mark. It does nothing to alleviate Hux’s sorrow or his fury. And Solo, once the ever-proud Master of the Knights of Ren, does nothing, even though his skin must smart with the force of it. “I didn’t want to go that hard,” Solo mutters, scowling thickly. “If you’d just – ” he begins, but cuts himself off with a huff of anger. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

Stars, is there no stone left unturned in this man’s deliverance? No act this overgrown child cannot perform without dismissing it after with _needs must_? No betrayal, no crime large enough for him to actually feel the consequence? Solo has taken everything from him, stripped him of all the success Hux clawed with bloody fingers from the galaxy, and yet he still gets to sit here and dismiss his actions with an over-casual, flat remark. Hux has never hated anyone so completely.

There’s a soft knock at the door. “The General is asking for you, sir,” a voice says. The General, Hux thinks absently. After devoting thirty years of his life to achieving that accolade, he’ll never be addressed with it again. He wonders if Solo catches the thought; he gives Hux a brief, wounded look as he goes.

Hux hadn’t met Réillata until he was twelve. Determined that his bastard wouldn’t ever be used for blackmail, Brendol had made his existence known from the outset, and as soon as he judged Réillata old enough that she wouldn’t embarrass him he frequently forced them to spend time with one another. Publically the intention was to emphasise familial harmony; privately Hux suspected he hoped they would fight for his approval in much the way he and Ren had fought for Snoke’s.

At first, he was right. She came from a happier time in her parents’ marriage, long after the blunder that had led to Hux, and was quietly confident in a way he had never been. He was bitterly, spitefully jealous, and she was thin-skinned and full of contempt. She had no doubt about her place, her future, and her parents’ affection. She had never had to flee her home under gunfire in the dead of night. She had never known true hunger, anger, or fear. Hux’s first great mistake was the assumption that her legitimacy spared her their father’s cruelty, when in truth he didn’t want a daughter and had no use for one. He had a son in Hux, of course, but he was too old-fashioned and weak-willed to go through the rigmarole of adopting him, and whatever small recent indiscretion Hux had committed was always quoted as the excuse.

Hux was in his twenties before he saw the full consequences for Réillata of their father’s dissatisfaction. He had stumbled into a tearful but petty argument which promptly escalated to Brendol smashing a crystal decanter across the then-teenage Réillata’s face; when Hux had shouted in fury and dismay, Brendol had stepped forward and fractured his jaw in one hard slap. It was somewhere in the ensuing silence, Réillata holding a coolpak across the swelling on his face whilst he picked shards of glass out of her long, tangled hair, that they had come to fully understand one another.

In short, Hux had learnt that family meant earning respect and not requiring it. That fidelity, success, and admiration were all things that must be warranted and given with a measure of restraint. That true forgiveness was not unconditional.

But Ben Solo trundles off to this band of brigands and is welcomed back with open arms, absolved of all his misdeeds through repentance that must, by its nature, be totally insufficient. Hux isn’t usually one to whine about unfairness; it’s never helped him in the past, and it would be hopelessly naïve to start now. But here, now, sat trembling with exhaustion and sorrow on a poky little bed in the freezing belly of some hellish Resistance base, the organisation he devoted his life to likely collapsing across the galaxy because of his failings and his failings alone, it all feels utterly unjust.

Perhaps one day later, perhaps two, the door to his cell springs open and Dameron charges into the room. Hux, rank with unwashed sweat despite the chill and sprouting far more than a patchy five o’clock shadow, finds that he still has enough vestiges of shame to be appalled to be seen in this condition.

Solo is quick on his heels, throwing himself bodily between Dameron and Hux, and Hux immediately assumes that he is to be marched off for execution. Solo’s fingers are poised above his saber, and he stands seemingly in protection of Hux’s life. “Poe,” comes a worried little voice, spoken by someone in the corridor that Hux can’t see.

“Don’t worry,” Dameron sneers, taking a big, bold step into Solo’s space. “He won’t do anything that bad without his mother’s permission.”

“ _Poe_ ,” says that voice again, though this time more exasperated than worried. Solo’s saber jumps into his hand. Solo and Dameron stare at one another for a long, furious moment until at long last Solo scowls, huffs out an angry breath, and steps aside.

Hux’s stomach drops. “Come on, up you get,” Dameron says, hauling him to his feet and cuffing his hands behind his back.

Someone shoves something rough and woollen over his head, and Hux’s concentration narrows wholly to not falling over on his march to the gallows. The path outside his cell begins as flat, but then veers sharply into an upwards slope, steep enough to make Hux’s legs ache. The air they emerge into is freezing, a sharp, cruel chill that seems to scour the breath from within him, and he’s gasping a little through the sack as Dameron continues forward across the uneven, slippery ground.

“I want you to watch,” Dameron hisses into his ear through the thick cloth.

Hux blinks dazedly into the bright light as the sack is abruptly pulled away. They’re at the dead centre of a crater, high ice-clad cliffs rising up in every direction. Ramshackle equipment has been hauled up to the surface and hooked up to solar batteries, a holoprojector and a communications array set up to one side of a huge lump of ice on the crater’s surface. No, Hux realises as the sunlight glints off its surface, not ice; it’s crystal, a thousand intricate designs etched into its surface Hux cannot read and does not know. Clustered around in a tight circle is a body of fifty, maybe sixty people, all clad in the threadbare grubby clothing Hux has come to associate with the Resistance. Only he, Dameron, and a handful of others are gathered a few feet from the centre, blessed with a clear view.

The crowd parts. Five new arrivals arrange themselves evenly around the crystal; Organa, Solo, Torbin, the traitor, and the scavenger girl. As they place their hands on the crystal’s surface it bursts with a bright, warm light, washing in a wave through the huddled audience and even for a brief moment banishing the chill of the icy ground that eats up at Hux from his aching knees. The holoprojector too jumps to life, a starship coalescing gradually above its surface. The image shifts and focuses until Hux recognises it with a jolt of dread – a star destroyer. The _Finalizer_. Forty-thousand men on board, most of them troopers. Surely they haven’t the firepower to take her down.

“I am one with the Force and the force is with me,” the scavenger girl begins. A strange, cold chill prickles down Hux’s neck, wholly unrelated to the icy wind. “I am one with the Force and the Force is with me.”

At first the chant is only taken up by those touching the crystal, but after a few moments the surrounding audience also begins to murmur along. Hux has had the displeasure of watching plenty of ritualistic nonsense during his time acquiring resources for the Order, and though he initially dismisses it as more superstitious babble he soon begins to worry something greater might be at work. The crystal is now blasting out light, thrumming with an energy even Hux can hear, rocking through him on a level deep enough to rattle his bones under his skin. The light builds and builds and builds, so harsh and so consuming that even when Hux is forced to close his eyes he can still see the bright red splash of it against his lids.

Hux feels something monumental change. He cannot say what, or where, or how; he cannot put words to this odd, all-consuming sense of transformation. It is as if the turn of the galaxy has changed direction, as if the entire universe has switched from facing up to facing down. Right at the peak of it, even as Hux feels certain that the power radiating off this lump of rock will blast them all to atoms, some great tissue of tension clouding all around them snaps and fizzles away.

Hux opens his eyes. He is breathing hard and trembling like he’s fled in fear for his life, and from the swaying, dizzy figures in the crowd he isn’t alone. Only the five in the centre seem unaffected, their faces smooth and calm, Organa’s mouth turned up at the edge in triumph.

A sudden movement on the holoprojector makes Hux startle. There’s no sign of further craft, no sign of an attack, but the great ion cannons gently turn and begin to fire on its own command deck. TIE fighters and escape pods shoot out into space, only to be blasted to nothing moments after. Hux watches in horror as she begins to cannibalise herself, targeting with precise ruthlessness the areas of high command, leaving the ship functional but deprived of her leadership. They must have hacked the controls – hidden a boarding party –

The projection flickers again with an incoming transmission. Organa approves it with a wave of her hand, and the image of the ship is replaced by the bust of a trooper, tears in her eyes, her helmet abandoned and her hair wild around her ears. “Thank you, General Organa,” she says, her voice full of trembling joy. “You have set us free.”

Hux kneels in the snowy dirt and lets the cold claw at his bones. He doesn’t need Solo’s wizardry or mysticism to recognise the stench of victory. One of the Resistance fighters is manning the comms deck, her headset pressed to her ear by her trembling hand as she announces the surrender or defeat of system after system. After the victory on Crait, the Order had sent its starships and its troopers into every corner of the galaxy. No port was left unclaimed, no system neglected. And he should know; he was there when they devised the strategy.

Hux is left alone to stew in his shame, the least interesting relic of a bygone age in the centre of their celebration. In time, Torbin rests one hand gently on Hux’s shoulder, leading him back to the tunnel in silence. They see no one as they walk through the snaking corridors, hewn out of the planet’s icy crust; the air is chilly, though not tinged with the bitter wind found on the surface.

To Hux’s surprise Torbin leads him further underground, the path sloping down and warming a little as it goes, until they enter a hangar bay, tall enough to contain at least an old lambda-class, if not Solo’s Upsilon. The bay is empty, save for a few dormant x-wings and a handful of basic freighters. Hux glances at Torbin with a frown, but they jab out towards the line of freighters with one finger and Hux makes himself look again. Sure enough, there’s a figure leaning up against the bulkhead, though Hux could’ve sworn he wasn’t there before: Solo.

Solo beckons them over fervently, looking guilty but resolute. Perhaps it is Organa’s intention to execute Hux after all, and Solo is determined to prevent it; it would explain his hostility to Dameron before. Hux is certainly struggling to think of an alternative reason as to why he’s loitering in the hangar bay when the rest of his allies are off in joyful celebration up above. “What is this?” Hux asks Torbin, his voice rough from lack of use. 

_Safe_ , Torbin replies, their expression solemn. Strange as it is, Hux finds that in that moment he believes them.

“Quickly,” Solo says when he and Torbin are within earshot, thumbing back at the open door to the freighter. “There isn’t much time.”

Solo and Torbin embrace beside him, pressing their foreheads together for a long, aching moment before Solo pulls away. Torbin signs something long and complex, tears in their dark eyes, and marches back towards the entrance, blocking the pedestrian door to the hangar bay. Solo disappears inside the freighter; Hux pulls in a deep, shaking breath, squashes down his apprehension and follows.

No one stops them as Solo fires up the engines and deftly steers the little craft out of the access channel. “What did they say?” Hux asks once they’re wrapped in the blackness of space, speeding away from the planet so swiftly that Hux doesn’t even get a clear view of where they were.

Solo’s mouth twists up in something like a smile. “May the Force be with you,” he replies.

They drop out of hyperspace above a horrid rocky planet in a binary system, and Hux experiences an uncomfortable squirm of déjà vu before he recognises it as Tatooine. Solo doesn’t pause as he steers the ship into land, aiming straight for some wretched port, tucking the freighter into one of the isolated landing bays teeming with disreputable life forms. A trio of little Jawas jumps into life and hurries towards the door, doubtless keen to earn a wage running unnecessary maintenance from some out-of-town fool.

“We need to get rid of this ship,” Solo says, powering down the engines and opening the door. “It’s too conspicuous.” He slides Hux a look. “Wait here.”

Fuck that, Hux thinks, watching him climb out and send the Jawas skittering away back into the shadows. He waits until Solo disappears from view, shoves anything valuable he can find into a bag and hurries out behind him. Stepping into the dry heat is akin to plunging headfirst into an ion engine, and Hux instantly remembers why he loathes desert planets. There’s no sign of Solo in the landing bay, but with a dozen tiny little alleyways snaking off in every direction it’s easy enough for him to disappear even in this scouring daylight.

Hux picks the darkest, dingiest-looking one on instinct. A hundred yards or so along its twisting path he catches sight of Solo, scowling thickly and arguing in rapid Huttese with a cross-looking Twi’lek. So much for inconspicuous; a handful of locals are leaning out of doorways and windows, fond of a good row and the possibility for bloodsport. Hux sidles over to one of the lower windows, careful to keep out of Solo’s eyeline, and offers the onlooker a cigarra.

He accepts it with a look of deep suspicion. “What do you want?”

“I wondered if you knew,” Hux says with a careful air of nonchalance as he leans forward with a light, looking for the man’s blaster, “That that man over there is Kylo Ren.”

The onlooker’s companion snorts from her horizontal position on the sofa, set a little further back inside the room. “Fuck off,” she says, flicking through something on her datapad. “Kylo Ren ain’t real.”

Hux grins. “Oh, he absolutely is,” he replies with delight, and in one fluid motion he reaches in, snatches up the man’s gun from where it rests below the window-ledge, and sends a blast flying in Solo’s direction –

– and Solo, of course, catches it. It hangs like an ugly smear in the air between them: Kylo Ren’s signature move. He sees Hux, holding the blaster and beaming with vicious triumph. His eyes widen ever-so-slightly with shock, and, Hux realises with greater glee, betrayal.

“Ah,” the onlooker softly says, as all around them the alleyway explodes into chaos. Hux slips away.

Mos Eisley is enough of a warren for the fight to become inaudible by the time Hux has stolen a street or two away. He seizes the advantage caused by his distraction, bartering two of his precious cigarras for passage onto a freighter running bantha steak to nearby Arkanis. It’s far from his ideal choice, but it’s the fastest, and the quicker he puts distance between him and Solo the better.

Settling into what little room there is left in the cargo bay, Hux becomes increasingly accepting that he cannot survive out on his own. He is too unfamiliar with the ragged edges of the galaxy, too well-honed in the imperial system, and there’s likely too large a price on his head for him to try and disappear. His best bet is to find someone sympathetic to the Order, if not to the extent of reinstating its majesty, and hope that he can find sanctuary there. Perhaps, if he’s very lucky, a way to rebuild.

Somewhere in the blackness of space between Mos Eisley and Scarparus Port, Hux thinks of Carth Matterweaver. Though he’s worked with the Order since long before Hux was born, he has far too much money and common sense to limit his trading to one side; he should be blessed him with the nous necessary to listen to Hux’s case, and the connections to see it through if he approves. Matterweaver hails from Cantonica. A lot of the old Imperial families had fled out that way; it’s where he and Maro originally met. Matterweaver’s family still owns considerable property near one of the cities, though Hux can’t recall which. And if Hux can reach Matterweaver, he might be able to reach Maro. And if Hux can reach Maro, he has a figurehead around which to rally the Order and their cause.

Hux sits with the idea as they begin the descent into the port, considers the benefits and drawbacks with his usual dogmatism, and upon leaving the ship he has resolved on the best course of action. Arkanis is as much of a shithole as Hux remembers. His Advozse pilot points him in the direction of a pawnbroker once they land in Scarparus, and Hux, ever prone to be paranoid, spends an hour or so watching locals come and go from _Paarz’s Paraphernalia_ before he is sure of its legitimacy.

Inside behind the counter is a squat Shawda Ubb with a veritable chandelier of magnifying glasses on its head, peering through one with its dark eyes as it examines the innards of some ill-fated trinket. Hux steps up to the counter, chased a little at the ankles by a mouse droid sweeping up the shop. “I need enough for passage to the Cantonica system,” he says in his sternest voice, schooling his expression to be as daunting as his current scruffy appearance allows. “And I need to be subtle about it.”

The vendor sucks through its crooked teeth, not looking up. “Subtle costs extra.” Hux resists the urge to roll his eyes, pulling out the ramshackle collection of machinery and merchandise he managed to swipe from Solo’s ship and from the Advozse’s freighter. The vendor glances across the display for half a moment before it grunts its displeasure and returns its attention to the trinket. “Rubbish.”

Hux clenches his jaw. He’d suspected as much, but the cigarras were his last resort. He pulls out the little box, resigned to losing the rest of them, but before he can even put it on the counter the Ubb’s wrinkled green hand has shot out and grabbed it, holding it up to the light and examining it closely. It seems entirely uninterested in the remaining cigarras, letting them fall out haphazardly onto the counter as it turns it in its hands. “That has potential?” Hux asks as he scoops them up, wincing at the eagerness in his voice.

The vendor nods. “Kriin-wood,” it says. “From Alderaan. This could buy you your own starship.” It peers at Hux over its enormous spectacles, a cold, calm assessment that makes his hackles rise. “Twenty thousand.”

“Twenty thousand?” Hux echoes, appalled. “You just said it was worth ten times as much!”

It snorts. “Good luck selling it,” it says flatly. “This stuff is Restricted, and something tells me you don’t have the paperwork.”

Hux clenches his jaw. “Fine,” he snaps sourly. “Twenty-five.”

“Twenty-two,” it instantly counters back. “No more.”

Hux accepts the grubby handful of chips with a scowl. He wonders whether Réillata had any sense of the value of her gift when she handed it to him. Surely she wouldn’t be so foolish as not to warn him; the cigarras alone were worth a fortune. “Talk to Wek,” the vendor adds, resuming its inspection of the box. “Over at Truestrike Cantina. Tell him Paarz sent you. He specialises in subtle.”

“Wonderful,” Hux hears himself mutter, and then is curtly chased out of the shop by the cross little droid, furious about his muddy bootprints. He hadn’t had the foresight to ask for directions to the Cantina, and of course it’s started to rain; on Arkanis it does little else. He scowls up at the weather, picks the direction that seems most bustling and most sordid, and trudges off, missing his warm greatcoat with every step.

After a good half an hour of getting steadily more sodden, Hux swallows what remains of his pride and asks the way. The Cantina is a predictably grotty hole-in-the-wall with a tacky luminescent sign above the door, but it is at least warm and dry. The barman points him towards a solitary Nautolan, nursing something purple and steaming alone in a booth at the far end of the room. Hux attempts to look nonchalant as he weaves through the crowded, noisy space, full of patrons hurrying in out of the rain.

“Paarz sent me,” Hux says once he draws level with the booth. He fleetingly hopes his nerves don’t show, but from what he’s read of their species there’s little point in trying to disguise something the man can smell in the air. The Nautolan nods, gesturing at the seat opposite him, the gold and silver bands around his tendrils glimmering in the light. Hux sits. “I’m looking for passage to Canto Bight,” he adds, resisting the urge to drum his fingers on the table. “And it needs to be subtle.”

Wek takes a pull of his drink. “Thirty thousand,” he says.

Fuck. Hux wets his lips, shifting a little against the tacky seat. “How far could I get with twenty?” he asks. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

Wek considers him for a moment with his black, unblinking eyes. “Do you know how to install an ion turbine?”

Hux falters. Usually he wouldn’t hesitate to lie, but out here it might just get him killed. Especially when speaking to a being who can literally smell it on him a mile away. “In theory,” he admits.

“I’ll need time to pick up more work,” Wek says. “Time I had intended to spend installing the new turbines.”

Hux grabs at the remark like a lifeline. “If I prepare your ship while you gather more business…?”

Wek’s smile is all teeth. “Then we’ll shake on twenty,” he replies.

It takes Hux four days to rig up the new turbines to the _Scattershot_. He negotiates with Wek to stay aboard as he carries out the work, taking the time to learn the idiosyncrasies of the ship and perform some of the more routine maintenance. She’s a middling freighter, large enough to have a captain’s cabin but too small to have anything in the realm of actual bunks. Wek has repurposed some of the shelving racks into half a dozen capsule beds roughly human in size; they’re hidden behind an inches-thick cloaking wall, the classic trick of an experienced people-smuggler. Hux practices the complicated sequence for the opening mechanism and thinks back to a previous life, when he’d boarded ships like this with a platoon of troopers and scoured them for fugitives. He’s not sure even he would have found this compartment.

On the morning of the fifth day, Wek loads up the remaining space in the cargo bay and declares them ready to depart. It’s five days longer than Hux would’ve liked to spend so close by to Tatooine, but there’s no sign of Ben Solo; no sign of any pursuit at all. The Resistance’s new poster boy probably has better things to do than hunt down a disgraced general with nothing more to his name than his shame and his skin.

Their first port of call is Ryloth, homeworld of the Twi’leks. Wek trades half of Hux’s payment and a dozen barrels of sharp-sweet ziki-fruit for ryll, a mineral ore used as a key component of gamma radiation fluctuation components. Hux had signed approval orders for its acquisition many times, but he suspects Wek rather intends to sell it on to spice manufacturers for its other, more hallucinogenic uses.

After Ryloth comes Geonosis. Hux had read, of course, of how the Empire had applied its customary ruthlessness to the indigenous population there; he’s always wanted to visit, to pay homage to that efficient brutality. The Empire’s official story was that they had attempted some kind of silly uprising that had needed to be quashed, but given that the manufacturing of much of the Empire’s technology originated here Hux has always found that explanation unconvincing. But to read of genocide and walk amongst its ruins are two quite different things. Hux has never seen it carried out in person, has never been among the cities of the dead. There’s an aura to the air which is almost oppressive, some kind of silence that rings with preternatural sorrow. He suspects that if Solo were here there’d be some stupid prattling about the Force.

The little band of surviving Geonosians scrapes a living making agricultural machinery and farming droids. They’re big, clunky, ugly things with no finesse, but they are robust and efficient and highly valued. The _Scattershot_ is too small to house whole equipment, but spare parts and updated enhancements are worth as much as a new model out of the factory. Hux says nothing as Wek barters cheerfully with the manufacturer in a mixture of Basic and the odd rattling clicks of the native language, negotiating a lower price with the promise of a return journey and future business.

“Did you see what you wanted?” Wek asks when the transaction is concluded, watching the service droids carry the crates up into the bowels of the _Scattershot_ ’s cargo bay.

Hux shrugs. “I’ve read a lot about this place,” he admits. “I was curious.”

Hux is still too unfamiliar with his kind to be confident enough to read Wek’s expressions, but as he eyes up the chittering pair of locals going through their inventory Hux thinks he looks rather sad. “The Empire really did a number here,” Wek replies. “These tribes only survived out of luck.”

They take the hyperspace lane to Gamorr, stopping only at Molavar to pay the toll and take on correspondence for Teth. Hux didn’t realise such an old-fashioned way of communicating was still so popular, and although it rankles his sense of efficiency he supposes it is a good way of maintaining absolute privacy. Any network, no matter how ruthless in its security, can eventually be hacked. He thinks briefly of using it to contact Réillata, but it isn’t worth the danger it might put her in. And besides, he doubts that she’s stayed on Naboo. He has no idea how to find her.

Hux knows nothing about Gamorr. It’s a quiet, rural backwater with an agricultural economy, and Wek makes a fortune selling the Geonosians’ technology on at a high price. It’s strange to Hux, eternally so, that these bucolic pockets of the galaxy still exist. That it matters so little to the Gamorreans whether a Republic rules out at the Core, or an Empire. Hux walks among the blue-leaved chakta groves, listening to the hum of buzzing insects and the answering twitter of yada-birds, and thinks about how he had once possessed a weapon so powerful and so brilliant that it could have wiped all this from existence at an idle command.

Hux knew nothing about Gamorr because Gamorr held no value to him. It wasn’t strategic; its people weren’t particularly talented or intelligent; its resources were commonplace. Hux had taken to the Order’s clean lines intuitively because they made complex things simple. It had made instant, instinctive sense to cleave the weak from the strong, to tidy up the messy edges of the universe with purpose, intent, and rigour. Against this framework, people were replaceable and emotions were reprehensible.

But perhaps somewhere Hux miscalculated. Or perhaps the data he was given to formulate from was poor from the beginning. Perhaps growing up in violence and isolation taught Hux to value life wrongly. Perhaps his earliest purposes as his father’s pawn had taught him that living things exist only as a benefit or a hindrance to some further grand plan. The lives he’s seeing now, the existence of these quiet, peaceable, independent people held no value in that system. For the first time in his life, Hux is beginning to wonder if it is that system, and not these communities, which is in the wrong.

He’d never been to Hosnian Prime. He’d never met its people and considered their potential. He had merely gone to Snoke with a weapon and Snoke had selected a target, and Hux hadn’t thought to question what seemed like the obvious logic. As if it were a perfect truth of the universe that cutting the head off the snake would lead to its downfall. He wonders if the error had been his, or Snoke’s. Which of them had been foolish enough to believe that Leia Organa, last surviving Alderaanian, forger of the New Republic, daughter of Darth Vader would be conquered by one act of violence alone?

The logic of the Order had no room for a planet like Gamorr, and yet it continued to exist and thrive with no regard for Hux’s principles. Likewise, Hux had never understood the logic behind the Resistance. Their motivations, their beliefs, their philosophies made no sense to him then, and even less so now; but that didn’t render them useless. Perhaps that is truly why he failed.

At Teth, Wek tells him to stay behind as he does his circuit of the bars, gathering what news he can and sharing his own knowledge in turn. He’s collecting on an old debt, and when he returns to the ship Hux is surprised to see him carrying a dejarik set under one arm. “Do you play?” Wek asks as he sets it up in the centre of the little communal area, not much more than a few sofas and an area to cook.

“Not in years,” Hux admits, but he takes the implicit invitation nonetheless. He runs his fingers over the little metal pieces as they arrange them around the board; he’s never played with a physical set before. They’re made of a soft, smooth silver metal, embellished in places with miniscule gems. The craftsmanship is beautiful. “This was the debt?”

“I lent it to a friend,” Wek says. “It was my grandmother’s.”

Hux knows nothing of Nautolan family units, of whether this kind of sentimentality is common for their kind, but it’s certainly a possession Hux would be loath to part with. “As your set, I believe that entitles you to first pick.”

Wek smiles. “Maybe you should go first, given your lack of recent experience,” he says sweetly, and Hux snorts. The selecting of pieces is almost as crucial to understanding your opponent as the game itself; choosing first unwisely can be a lethal mistake. Wek considers for a moment, and then selects the Kintan Strider.

“Any news from the galaxy?” Hux asks, selecting the Ng’ok.

“The Order’s done for,” Wek says, and Hux is grateful for his distraction when he feels the horror show itself briefly on his face. Wek selects the Ghhk and settles back in his chair. “Organa’s lot have stormed the Palace on Naboo.”

Hux hides his dismay by considering each of the pieces in turn, his breaths deep and even. “And High Command?” he asks, voice carefully steady, picking the Grimtaash.

“Either dead or about to be,” he answers with a vague, offhand gesture as he chooses the Mantellian Savrip.

Hux clears his throat, trying to calm the rapid beat of his heart in his chest. “Ah,” he says. Wek looks at him with obvious curiosity; he can sense Hux’s anxiety as easily as he can see him, after all. Hux needs to find a convincing lie. “I am – was – in their employ,” he begins, closing his fingers around the little spiky horns of the Monnok. “I design things. Ships, weapons.”

Wek makes his final selection; the Houjix. “Anything I might know?”

Hux isn’t stupid enough to own up to Starkiller. That triumph now lives on only as yet another achievement that Solo had thoughtlessly stripped from him. “The Upsilon model,” he replies, picking up the only remaining piece, the K’lor’slug.

Wek hums appreciatively. “Now that is a pretty beast,” he says, arranging his pieces on the board.

“I was hoping to find a more neutral party to work for,” Hux murmurs, following suit with his own. All of this is at least a half-truth. “Hence Cantonica.”

“It’s the place for it,” Wek agrees. “They’re always thirsty for new ways to kill people there.” Wek’s green face splits into a broad smile. “I believe you have the starting move.”

Hux loses. He can’t blame it entirely on being rusty. Wek’s words echo in his head like a clarion call: the Order’s done for. It’s a truth Hux has known for days, one he had sensed from the very moment Ben Solo dropped out of his mind with every scrap of knowledge he could possibly want to ensure the Order’s downfall. But knowing it and _knowing_ it are two very separate states. Clearly, he’d still been living with hope.

Hux curls up on the floor beside the transparisteel viewport and smokes the last of his cigarras, staring sightlessly into hyperspace. The emotions crowd so sharply and so ruthlessly in Hux’s chest that he struggles to make sense of them. He is totally, utterly ashamed. He’s so angry and so miserable that he can’t see the point of flying into a rage; it would never even scratch the surface. He’s known this feeling before, is well-acquainted with his own broiling hatred and fury, but previously he has always been able to determine a plan. Setbacks can be overcome. Defeats can be surmounted. New strategies can always be devised. But in this, he sees no out. There’s nothing left. No plan he can make. No ground to stand upon while he rebuilds.

Worst of all, burning at the very centre of it, is this creeping, writhing, awful sense of having proved his father right.

Hux dreams of Starkiller, of Snoke. He dreams of red against black, the bolt of his weapon against the sky; of red against white, Ren’s blood against the snow; of black against red, the hallowed halls of Snoke’s throne on a ship that’s long since gone. Dead planets, dead people, dead places.

When he wakes they are orbiting Boz Pity. Wek seems quiet, subdued, standing at the viewport and staring down at the planet below. Almost no other vessels are in sight this side of the planet. “Will you come with me?” Wek asks. “It’s always easier with two.” Hux nods.

They touch down at the end of a long, broad path, made of a pure shining stone that glows like a beacon along the ground. It’s a beautiful day, the sun warming the air pleasantly, the faintest breeze rippling through the trees which flank the path. Although this little patch of the world is clearly overgrown, the path somehow remains spotless; as they walk along it Hux realises that it is made of one enormous slab of rock, clear of even the smallest crack. It can’t be natural, but Hux also can’t imagine how it was made.

After a hundred yards the path branches three ways, decorated by three large, interconnected arches. Wek takes the right path without hesitating; the central path leads down and out of sight, while the left slopes up towards the hills. It feels like a choice from a children’s story, Hux thinks absently. A few minutes’ walk sees the stone path trail off into a scruff of dirt, winding away into the woods. Wek pauses for a moment to drink water from his pack, setting down the crate he’s carried from the _Scattershot_ and rolling a little of the tension out of his arms. The crate is a good five feet wide, well out of what Hux could haul around, but he’s hardly the most well-built human and brute strength is a common trait of Nautolans.

“It isn’t far now,” Wek says as they set off again. The sound of his voice seems odd here, almost sacrilegious. There’s no sign of birds in the trees, mammals in the undergrowth. Wek picks his way through the woods with confidence, clearly familiar with the route despite the hundreds of little branches that shoot off to either side, and at long last they arrive at a clearing. It’s barely more than a few feet of cleared earth at the edge of a vast pool, clear, dark blue and unfathomably deep. It bores down towards the planet’s core like a bullet hole, perfectly circular and maybe ten metres wide. Though the plants around them grow wild and fierce and in a hundred hues of green, some trick of nature keeps a plain strip of earth at the pool’s edge.

Wek sets the crate down and kneels beside it, taking off his boots. Inside are seven pots of stone, large enough to need both of the Nautolan’s strong hands to lift them. He picks out the three in a reddish-grey pink and closes the lid. “Do you know the Twi’lek sacrament?” Wek asks, and Hux shakes his head. “Then stand at the edge and pass them to me.”

Wek steps into the pool. The liquid moves like water, but with a hint of odd viscosity that suggests something else. Wek follows some ledge under its surface until the liquid comes up to his waist, and then turns for Hux to hand him the first jar. He opens it with surprising gentleness, and mixes its contents with a palmful of the pool before tipping them out onto its surface, murmuring in a language Hux doesn’t recognise under his breath. He repeats the process with the other two pink pots, passing them back to Hux once they’re empty, and then they sit together at its side as they wait for his clothes to dry.

Boz Pity. The graveyard planet. Its whole southern hemisphere is turned over to little shrines like these, all different in their own ways, all holding the remains of a thousand different ancestors from across the galaxy. It’s an ancient, sacred tradition that spans back millennia, but as the people of the nearby systems travelled further and further from home, returning to perform the funerary rites became more and more difficult. Hux wonders how many species Wek knows the sacrament for, how many members of far-flung families he’s laid to rest on their behalf. It tells Hux more about the man than a thousand years in his company ever could. Very few would be trusted with such a duty.

They visit two more shrines before they return to the _Scattershot_ , laying three Advozsec and two Zabraks to rest. Each place is different in its nature and in its rites and in its sacraments. Hux wonders what the human temples are truly like; his father had described them to him once, huge stone structures buckling under their own weight and their descendants’ lack of care. The contempt in his voice had almost been enough to make Hux carefully preserve his corpse to dump among the ruins here, just for the satisfaction of knowing he’d be picked apart by scavengers in a place he loathed. Thankfully, at the time of his father’s demise Hux had had better things to do.

When they arrive back at the ship there’s a belated message from Wek’s contact on Nal Hutta, promising a lucrative deal on his Gamorrean rock salt. It’s back the way they just came, but Hux doesn’t begrudge him the diversion; it’s hardly his place to do so. “And besides,” Wek says with a grin, “You could make use of the time to practice dejarik.”

“Put this on,” Wek said soon after they landed on Nar Shaddaa. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Hux fidgets uneasily at the edge of the crowd, uncomfortable in the loose-fitting, low-slung, pale blue robe. It works well to keep him cool in the scorching heat, still very present despite it being long past nightfall, but it’s loud and garish and is attracting too much attention in how it clashes with his pale complexion and bright hair. Wek had disappeared to the bar a good ten minutes before, but has yet to re-emerge with his quarry. The cantina is buzzing with its local clientele, beings of all kinds tripping over one another in the pit below a veiled area which is reserved, Hux suspects, for the use of the local Hutt themselves.

Wek eventually returns, a drink in his hand and a Kadas’sa’Nikto in tow. His companion gives Hux a long, slow look, his scaly green nose flattening in something that on a human would be distaste. “Torbin,” Wek says, “This is Falynn Tok. Torbin designs spacecraft.”

Falynn Tok lets out a grunt of interest, tilting his head. “Who for?”

“The Order,” Hux replies easily, as if it were no great secret at all. He had given the name Torbin to Wek back on Arkanis; General Hux’s reputation may have penetrated even as far as those nasty backwaters, especially with the Academy so close by.

Falynn Tok’s mouth splits into something like a grin. “So you’re looking for work, then,” he says a little nastily. Hux grants him a cold smile. “As they say round here, u kulle rah doe kankee kung.”

“Quite,” Hux replies with resolute tact, despite having absolutely no idea what he’s agreeing to.

His answer seems to please Falynn Tok immensely. “Well, look me up if you’re in the area again,” he says, teeth glinting in the low light. “But if you don’t mind, Kitalpha and I have private business to attend to.”

“Of course,” Hux replies, dipping his head towards Wek and slipping happily away into the shadows. He’s grateful to be away from the buzzing crowd, and even more grateful to be away from Wek’s preternatural ability to pick up on his mood. Although he appreciates the kindness in Wek’s gesture, he’d rather suck off a Wookie than ever work for the Hutts.

He’s never spent much time on an ecumenopolis before. The principle is excellent, but the execution on Nar Shaddaa leaves a lot to be desired. The boom of the Hutts’ business left the moon’s inhabitants scrabbling for space on the surface, bleeding out from their neat little sectors into this tangled mess of architecture. It’s all very cheek-by-jowl in a way that Hux finds distasteful, the bright green banners of the Trandoshans dangling from their skyslums clashing with the neighbouring orange of the Aqualish. And the smell is horrific. He doubts the Hutts give much thought to sewage lines and sanitary infrastructure.

He’s wandered a few warrenish streets away from the cantina in a doomed quest for fresher air when he notices he’s being followed. Hux idles around in a quiet little square, a fountain ringed by shops selling a variety of luxury goods. He has a blaster strapped to his thigh, and the Twi’lek isn’t being subtle enough in his interest in Hux to seem a real hazard. Hux watches in the reflection of the shop window as the he approaches, waiting to turn towards him until he’s only a few feet away.

“Do you find stalking works often?” Hux asks flatly, spinning to catch him off guard. “I’ve shot others for less.”

The Twi’lek grins. “Guilty,” he admits, spreading his hands placatingly. “Saw you back at the Cantina. We match,” he adds, gesturing from his blue skin to Hux’s robe, and Hux snorts. “You here long?”

“You’re a local,” Hux replies, avoiding the question. “You have all the manners of a local, anyhow.”

The Twi’lek feigns agony, clutching at his chest. “Perhaps I can try to change your estimation of our humble city?”

Hux considers him for a moment. He’s handsome, and there’s nothing in his manner that suggests he’s a threat; there’s nothing even to suggest he has any idea that Hux is worth threatening. And it’s been quite some time since he fucked a Twi’lek. As something that could at the very least get him thrown out of the Order for good, the opportunities to act on the desire unobserved have previously been few and far between.

“I could use some cigarras,” Hux confesses, smiling a little by way of encouragement.

The Twi’lek beams. “Perfect,” he says, and holds out his arm for Hux to take. “I know just the place.”

Hux never learns the true delights of Nar Shaddaa. The Twi’lek leads him down a tiny alley, barely a scrap of land between the looming buildings all around, and pushes Hux up against the wall to kiss him.

Hux shivers a little, trailing his fingers down the man’s lekku until he can take hold of the tip and roll it gently between his fingers. The air around them feels heady, warm, as if they’ve been cloaked with a blanket of pleasure. There’s a soft, gentle tingle at his temples, and something in the way it makes Hux’s head spin gives him pause; but the thought skitters away as the Twi’lek bites at his neck, skimming his broad hand down to the opening of Hux’s robe.

The pressure increases, and Hux abruptly recognises it in an ice-cold wave of absolute terror. Panic and revulsion tearing through his mind, he shoves the Twi’lek away, turns his head and empties his stomach against the wall, shaking with the force of it.

“It’s alright,” the Twi’lek says, his voice kind but alarmed, hovering just out of reach. “It’s just – it’s nothing dangerous, it just – ”

Hux lashes out with his foot; wordlessly, the Twi’lek flees. If Hux had been mindful enough to get hold of his blaster, he’d undoubtedly have shot him. Hux sinks down against the hard, cold metal of the alleyway wall, shivering uncontrollably as his body tries to fight off a threat that’s long since gone. Mouth thick with the taste of his vomit and heart pounding in his chest, Hux wonders – somewhat hysterically – if he has anything left to lose. Solo hasn’t even left him his dignity.

The _Scattershot_ spends the next few days in hyperspace en route to Centares. Hux hates the quiet of it, pacing restlessly around the little ship in search of something to do. On the _Finalizer_ and the _Supremacy_ there had always been something for him to turn his mind to even in the furthest-flung bowels of space. But there’s only so many times he can reorganise the remaining few crates in the cargo bay, and every inch of the ship is in the shiniest, smartest order that she’s been since she first ever blasted off. Wek occasionally indulges him with a game of dejarik, but on the two occasions in which Hux scrapes a victory he has a nasty suspicion that Wek is letting him win.

They only linger on Centares for as long as it takes to unload the requisite cargo and refuel the ship. It’s possible that was always the intention, but Hux can’t help but wonder if his foul mood is making Wek keener to be rid of him. Their next port of call is thankfully close by, a jungle planet named Felucia just off the main hyperspace route. It’s another place Hux knows by reputation, if not experience. He spent an unbelievably tedious week aboard the _Finalizer_ entertaining some Felucian dignitaries as the Order attempted to negotiate better access to nysillin, an analgesic plant used as a bacta alternative. Hux had only recently been made General, and between that and the introduction of Kylo Ren to the Order’s infrastructure the atmosphere on the ship was febrile at best. The stilted meetings and his clumsy attempts at wooing the diplomats are not memories which he reflects upon fondly.

The main city of Akira is a humid, colourful place, buzzing with traders and festooned with brightly-patterned flowers from the nearby jungles. They throw out warm, heady scents into the air as Hux brushes by. He and Wek had gone their separate ways just after disembarking the _Scattershot_ , Hux disinterested in Wek’s work and Wek likely glad for the respite from his distemper.

Hux finds his way to the marketplace nearest to the spaceport, idling between the brightly-coloured stalls and keeping half an eye out for a merchant selling cigarras. He isn’t the only human around, and the several stalls with displays pitched at his eyeline suggest the much shorter locals are accustomed to a variety of traders, but there’s little enough Basic floating in the air for it to grab his attention when he catches some emanating from somewhere nearby. It’s a recording on a loop, fixed on a little holoprojector at the height of Hux’s hip. Occasionally a gaggle of locals trots over and listens to what it has to say, but most breeze past as if it is a familiar or uninteresting message.

The moment Hux recognises the tiny figure of Organa his stomach rolls with dread. Her hair hangs half-loose around her shoulders, the rest bound into intricate plaits on her head that the poor quality of the projector can’t replicate. Her expression is firm, but her eyes are full of joy.

_“ – triumphed over tyranny again. The First Order is defeated. I, Leia Organa, invite all systems to send representatives to our new headquarters on Naboo. Together, we will ensure the restoration of peace, freedom, and democracy across the galaxy in a new Commonwealth. Years ago, the Rebellion overthrew – ”_

Hux turns on his heel, marching sightlessly through the rickety wooden stalls in search for sanctuary he knows he can’t find. On some level he knows that Solo had left him no choice but to act as he did. The Order thought him dead, and the rest of the galaxy would have been glad to confirm it if he’d gone to them for refuge. He’d fled penniless, haggard, and friendless from the wild fringes of the galaxy. He’ll be at Canto Bight in a matter of days, and there lay the firmest chance of restitution anywhere in this wretched galaxy.

But it’s too late. His Order is ruined, and even his desperate fanaticism cannot repair it. He’s not truly certain anyone else would even want him to.

They’re half a day away from Cantonica when Hux finds Wek playing dejarik alone in the common room. His eyes instantly narrow; Wek meets the glare with a grin. “One more time, then?” Wek asks sweetly. Hux crosses the room, settles in with fierce determination, and almost instantly loses.

He seethes quietly as Wek clears away the board, wondering if he has somehow managed to rig the set against him. “You don’t have to be so smug,” Hux says with a scowl.

“You could try to learn from it. You’re completely predictable,” Wek adds, despite Hux’s obvious indifference. “Even your attempts to be impulsive are planned. There’s no wildness in your game, no chance. I can guess your every move from the moment you start.”

It makes Hux think back to another life, standing on the bridge of the _Finalizer_ and having inane arguments with Kylo Ren about the benefits of chaos. “I’ve never seen much value in chance,” he mutters.

The navcom chirrups; they’re coming up on Cantonica. Hux has already thrown his few possessions into a battered knapsack, so follows Wek into the cockpit and gets a good look at the planet as they drop out of hyperspace. It’s an uninspiring mucky yellow, not unlike the grim wasteland of Tatooine from orbit. Hux can’t help but wonder why in the stars such a dispiriting place would become so valued by the galaxy’s rich and famous, but he supposes if someone is wealthy enough to artificially create an ocean then creature comforts can be obtained at any price.

Wek guides the _Scattershot_ through the planet’s atmosphere, landing at the outskirts of Canto Bight. Hux has heard much of the glamour and glitz of the place, but the scrubby little spaceport on the edge of the city looks much like any other Hux has visited. He supposes even glittering leisure cities need back entrances for trades. Wek follows him down the ramp, glancing around and then waving over a Toydarian hovering over an astromech droid. Hux holds out his hand. “Many thanks,” he says, half-embarrassed by his stiffness.

Wek gives him a strange look. “Glad to be of service,” he says, taking the proffered hand, and then turns to greet the Toydarian. Hux nods once to no-one, spins on his heel and finds the nearest way out into the bowels of Canto Bight.

The air feels twice-baked against his skin, the squat buildings hunkered down low towards the planet’s surface and littered with thick-rimmed windows to make the most of the occasional breeze. Hux wonders if this is what the city looked like before the galaxy’s elite moved in; a tangled mess of pale, white lumps clustered together on the sandy surface of a vast, unending desert. The city is still suffering from the strongest heat of the day, and as soon as Hux spots a hole-in-the-wall he ducks into it and down into the cool basement gratefully. The bar is mostly empty, save for a few service workers on the morning shift winding down together over a game of sabacc. Hux walks to the bar, perching on one of the stools and surveying the dreary offerings on display.

“Brandy?” he asks the bartender, who slaps down a filthy rag and walks over to serve him.

“We got some from Toydaria,” she says, looking him over with clear dislike.

Hux pulls a face. “Just water,” he replies, ignoring the way she slams the glass down in front of him and spills half of it across the sticky surface. He isn’t here to make friends. He might have to find another place to start making enquiries, though.

Hux nurses the glass of water and begins to draft a plan. He has enough credits left over from the journey to stay somewhere reasonably comfortable; he’ll need new clothes, and a haircut and a shave wouldn’t go amiss. He also needs to consider what in seven hells he’s going to say to Matterweaver when he finds him. Any hopes he had of rebuilding the Order when he set out in Mos Eisley now seem utterly diminished, but perhaps Matterweaver knows better; or perhaps he knows where best Hux’s efforts would be directed in an attempt to continue the Order’s work regardless.

It isn’t until he finishes his glass of water that Hux realises something strange. It’s a slow, creeping feeling, stealing over him so gradually that he hadn’t noticed it; a lightheadedness, an odd blurring of his vision, a tightness in his chest. If he’s unwell then he should definitely leave, given this is no place to look for aid – but when he gets up off the stool the world lurches sideways around him, nearly throwing him to the floor as his ears begin to ring.

“Easy, General,” the bartender says, a twisted smile on her face. “You might hurt yourself.”

Hux hits the ground.

Hux wakes alone in a dark, stifling room, hanging by his arms and with a hollow pounding in his head. Light cracks in through the half-open door, and the press of it against his eyes is excruciating. He can hear movement, distant voices in the corridor, the thudding of a bass beat under his feet, but the room he’s in is barren.

A trio of humans enters the room. One of them is the bartender, her arms crossed across her chest and that same wicked grin still on her face. He doesn’t recognise her or the two men who stand beside her, one shorter and fair-haired and the other gangly and unshaven.

“Unbelievable,” the fair-haired man says, walking across the room and peering at him like he’s some kind of specimen in a cage.

“He just walked in here and ordered a fucking drink,” the bartender says as the gangly man locks the door. Hux feels his stomach turn over with dread.

“I heard he was dead,” the closer man mutters, straightening up and glancing back at his companions; the girl shrugs. He grabs Hux by the scruff of his overgrown hair, wrenching his head back. “There’s nothing left of your Order,” he sneers. “Not much left of you.”

This is bad, Hux thinks, distant and hysterical. This is extremely not good. The fair-haired man makes to hit him, but the girl catches his hand, chiding him with a tut. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she says through that feral grin. “We’ve got all the time in the galaxy.”

Time bleeds away. Hux never learns their names. They were troopers once, he knows, but they never give their assignations. They strip him of his filthy clothes, blast him with ice-cold water from a hose, sloppily shave off his hair and beard with a dangerously damaged razor that slices into his scalp. They leave him there to dry in nothing but his underwear, shivering as much from humiliation as the cold.

When they return, one of them carries a Z6 baton. Hux manages to find it absurdly fitting that he be tormented by a weapon of his own design. The dark-eyed, gangly man brings the baton down across Hux’s shin with a crack, and Hux hears the bone break with a dizzy rush of revulsion long before the pain sets in. The man raises the baton again.

Exhausted, famished, agonised, Hux blacks out. His next waking thought is one of dismayed comprehension at the sour tang of burning metal, acrid even through the wad of filthy cloth they’ve shoved in his mouth to muffle the sound. He’s shaking from fear, can’t make himself stop, can’t make the bartender stop as she crosses the room with an animal brand forged in the crude shape of a starbird, glowing and spitting with heat. She grips his hair with one hand as she presses the brand into his skin, and as he screams her mouth is split wide in a smile of vicious triumph.

He’ll die here, he thinks hazily as fits of consciousness sweep over him like waves. Naked and alone in this hellish slum at the very edges of the galaxy. They’ll grow tired of drawing entertainment out of his pain, his degradation, and they’ll kill him. They’ll probably mount his head on a spike and display it above the door of the cantina.

That smell returns, that bitter stench of agony and ozone, and Hux jolts awake in horrified recognition. The room reels in and out of focus, and he casts wildly around for the source of that crackling hum. He’s lost all sense of where he is, of what he might be doing – was he on a mission? Was he captured? Where is his ship? Will Snoke – ?

A figure swims hazily into view, clad in black and reeking of fury. _Ren?_ he thinks, distant and disbelieving. No, he realises, as reality drops like a leaden tombstone back into his mind. Solo.

Hux blinks. Corpses litter the ground of the little room, sliced into pieces by Solo’s saber, blue as a clear Naboo sky. “There are more – ” Hux croaks as soon as Solo tugs out the gag.

“No,” Solo interrupts quietly, “There aren’t. Can you stand?”

Hux shakes his head. “My leg,” he begins, but the effort is too much, his mind skittering away. Hux registers cool fingers at his temple, an overwhelming sense of peace, and then nothing but darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **torture scene one** : Hux is secured to a chair while Ben uses the Force to search his mind for information about the Order. Hux resists several attempts and finds the experience physically and psychologically traumatising. later in this part, a similar connection to the Force triggers a panic attack.
> 
>  **child abuse** : Hux reflects on a time when his father was physically violent when he and Réillata were younger, although he was in his 20s and she was a teenager. Brendol hits Hux in the face, breaking his jaw, and smashes a decanter across Réillata's face. 
> 
> **torture scene two** : Hux is tied while standing and beaten by ex-Stormtroopers. this involves breaking one leg with a baton and burning his chest with an animal brand, which then leaves a scar.


	3. a king to a god

On Ilum, when Hux had knelt in the bowels of his dying weapon and been told to fetch Ren like a wayward dog, he had considered abandoning him to die in the wasteland of his failure. He hadn’t; he’d commandeered a shuttle and three troopers and scoured the boiling snow, steadily panicking by the minute that the planet would collapse before he found him at all. But once they did finally locate him, once they dragged his still-bloody body onto the little shuttle, Hux was not gentle. He was not kind. He left the fawning to the meditrooper and sat on the other side of the shuttle to shake himself apart, nails digging bright red welts into his palm.

Hux had always seen the point of Kylo Ren. He was a weapon which could be used to serve a purpose, no different to Starkiller or Lord Vader before him. Hux had actually been excited when Snoke first assigned Ren to the _Finalizer_ ; he remembers vividly standing in the hangar bay and watching Ren’s shuttle glide in from the black void of space, chest bursting with the anticipation of all that they might achieve together.

He hadn’t been delivered Lord Vader. He’d been delivered a belligerent child. Ren was a thing of temper and arrogant theatrics, lazy and spiteful and hopelessly inefficient. But for all Ren’s spiteful comments about Hux being an armchair general, in truth he had never been one to shirk his duty. He had brought Ren to Snoke not in the hope of absolution, but because it was commanded of him. Truthfully, he had gone in full expectation of being executed in disgrace. He still has no idea why his master was merciful.

Later, Hux will think back to the missing moments before he woke on Solo’s ship. He imagines Solo carrying him, clothing him, setting his leg inside the cast. It’s strange, but aside from the anger and the embarrassment, most profoundly Hux feels guilt.

Hux can’t move. Panic sets in, vicious and immediate and decidedly unaided by Solo appearing at his bedside and telling him to calm down. “I had to keep you still while your leg healed,” Solo explains, barely audible through the thundering in Hux’s ears. Hux isn’t sure he can speak, so he settles on thinking as loudly as he can for Solo to _let him go_. Solo nods once. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he warns, and raises his hand.

The paralysis washes from his system in a wave. Hux tugs in a shaky breath, first flexing his fingers and then testing the strength of his forearms to sit up on the bed. His leg is still trapped inside the durasteel cast, long pins riveted into the flesh to keep it still while the bone sets in place. It’s an old, clumsy bit of kit, but Hux supposes Solo had to make do with what he could find. The burn on his bare chest is covered by a bacta patch, and for a moment Hux thinks that’s why he feels strange, oddly shivery; then he runs his fingers across his scalp and remembers with a jolt of dread. Somehow the indignity of that sits worse than anything else.

Solo watches him trace the poorly-chopped fuzz of hair, his expression indecipherable. “I’ll get you something to eat,” he says, and leaves Hux alone to take in the poky bedroom.

It’s small, smaller even than his quarters on the _Actuator_. It isn’t much bigger than is required to house a bed for two and a little storage, but the side of the room opposite the bed is devoted entirely to a transparisteel wall Hux would consider an aesthetic superfluity on a ship of his design. Through it Hux sees the source of the odd, white-blue light washing through the room; a dying star, right at the edges of the galaxy. He can feel the idling thrum of a ship’s engines though the air, but he suspects they’re in heliocentric orbit to save fuel.

Solo returns with hot spiced stew and fresh bread that far outstrips the dry rations Hux had expected. He sets it on the bed on a breakfast tray, perching further down to check the readings on the steel cast’s tiny screen. Hux takes small, careful bites of the bread and tries to judge how likely he is to vomit; satisfied he can stomach the stew, Hux picks up the spoon and begins to eat it as Solo works. It’s rich, warm, and far more complex than he ever imagined Solo to be capable of making.

“Can you move your foot?” Solo asks, not looking up from the datascreen; Hux wiggles his toes. The visual strikes him as oddly comical, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle a bark of laughter. “It says it’s done resynthesising the bone,” Solo adds at length, drawing back with a sceptical scowl. “I’d give it a few more hours, though.”

Hux sets aside his bowl, still half-full but more than he can manage. He eyes Solo closely, trying to decipher whether or not he can risk a question. “How did you find me?”

“I’ve been tracking you for weeks,” Solo replies. “After the stunt you pulled in Mos Eisley – ”

“Forgive me for seizing the opportunity to escape my torturer,” Hux interrupts flatly.

They sink into an awkward silence. Solo won’t meet his eye; he’s watching the slow decay of the star outside the viewport, his pale face cast eerily in the harsh blue light. “You were meant to die on Jedha,” he says, after what feels like an age.

Hux stares at him. For a long, awful moment he finds it near impossible to breathe around the lump in his chest, and when he speaks his voice is thin and weak. “What?”

“I wasn’t meant to bring you back,” he says. “My mission was to trap you there, find out what we needed to know, and then kill you.” He glances at Hux. “But I – couldn’t.”

Hux pulls in a steady breath. “I suppose it’s comforting to know you have one constant,” he mutters nastily. “Whatever side of the war you’re on you’re always a whore to sentiment.”

The very corner of Solo’s mouth is turned up in a smile. Hux isn’t sure exactly what he finds so bloody funny, but he hasn’t the energy to argue. He raises a hand to his head, humouring a long-entrenched habit of smoothing down his hair, before he remembers and lowers it again. “So,” Hux hears himself say, the word slow and weary. “You won’t kill me. You won’t let me go. What now?”

“I’ve been given a job to do,” Solo replies. “I thought you might help.” Panic rolls once more in the pit of Hux’s gut, his mind sinking instantly back to his freezing cold cell, to Solo dragging out whatever he chose from the recesses of Hux’s fractured mind. “No, not like that,” Solo hurriedly adds, heat rising a little into his cheeks. “I thought – you might want to.”

Hux clenches his jaw. He’s escaped from Solo once before; he’s sure he can manage it a second time, even if Solo is now aware of the likelihood of his betrayal. “Fine,” he snaps tersely. “What is it?”

Solo shakes his head. “Later,” he says, strangely offhand. “You should get some rest.”

Hux lets the wave of irritation wash over him, watching absently as Solo stands from the bed and gathers the dirty plates. It comes as little surprise to find Solo’s unnecessary flare for mysticism has survived his so-called salvation.

“I heard that,” Solo peevishly replies.

When Hux next wakes he feels halfway to human again. There’s no chrono in the room, but the ache in his leg has dulled and exhaustion crowds a little less sharply behind his eyes. The dying star through the viewport has been replaced by the gentle blur of hyperspace, the jump corroborated by the louder thrum of the engines. He can’t understand the language flickering on the cast’s tiny screen, but he decides the gently-pulsing green is probably a good sign and begins the fiddly process of retracting the pins and unscrewing the body of the cast. His skin beneath is pale and horribly bruised, big ugly purple-black things clustered in a line where the baton had struck, but the bone beneath the flesh is mended.

Hux finds a pile of clothes in the chair beside the bed, folded neatly and topped by a collapsed durasteel cane that he immediately elects to ignore. He pulls on the shirt and trousers, grateful for the warmth, and then pauses for a moment over the accompanying tunic. At first glance it seems black, but on closer inspection the fabric is woven with a delicate mix of blues and greys. Hux pulls it on, smoothes his hand across his scalp in a hopelessly-cemented gesture, and with great care he makes his way across the little room to the exit.

The door opens into the lower deck of a sleek-looking ship, the elongated curves of her design entirely at odds with Hux’s preference for boxy, space-efficient rectangles. He eases his way up the short flight of steps and into an open common-room, the engines to the aft and the cockpit visible through a narrow corridor to the fore. The room itself is mostly empty save for a sprawling couch, a series of hatches along the floor and walls suggesting further furniture tucked away for maximum space. She’s flying unmanned; Solo is sat cross-legged in the centre of the floor, eyes closed, hands on his knees, hovering an inch or so above the deck. Dressed in an open-necked shirt and loose trousers the twin of Hux’s, he looks calm, peaceful, and nothing at all like Kylo Ren.

Solo sinks slowly to the ground and opens his eyes. “Where did you find this old beast?” Hux asks, moving past him to enter the narrow corridor towards the cockpit.

“Tatooine,” Solo answers, following him to hover behind the pilot’s seat. “You look better.”

Hux can’t make head or tail of the cockpit’s computers, programmed in the same language as the clunky durasteel cast. “What’s our heading?”

“Nal Hutta,” Solo replies, pointing at a line of gibberish on a little glowing screen. “It’ll take a few hours. Do you want a tour?”

“I’ll manage,” Hux says icily. Solo answers with a shrug and walks back into the common room. Hux half-expects him to resume his mystical meditation, but he flips out a table from a panel on the wall and drags a black tarp off a pile of what turns out to be mangled machinery. Hux walks over, curious in spite of himself, glancing over the ragged pile with a mix of nosiness and scorn. “What is that?”

“A project,” Solo answers shortly. “I found it in the cargo bay.” It’s a tangled mess of different droid units, Hux realises; he recognises the arching legs of an R3-era astromech and the bulbous head of a BB-unit tangled up in the language system for a protocol droid. “You could help. I need to clean out the motivator.”

“Which one?” Hux asks absently, picking one grease-covered lump out of the pile and turning it idly in his hands. He can see at least three.

Solo doesn’t answer; when Hux glances up he’s giving him a thin-eyed, suspicious look. “What do you know about droid mechanics?”

“Not much,” Hux admits flatly. “But evidently more than you.”

The task is seemingly endless, and Hux’s eyes ache from squinting and his fingers throb from the abrasive metal long before they’ve gutted all of the gunk from the motivator’s innards. It’s a different type of tiredness than he’s felt recently, though; not the fraught fatigue brought about by living under fear, or the exhaustion that follows endless hours under torture. He sits back, working some of the pain out of his fingers and letting the simple pleasure of the work sink through him. He’s up to his elbows in black engine grease, but unlike his work on the _Scattershot_ he oddly finds he doesn’t mind.

“There’s a water ‘fresher in the captain’s cabin,” Solo says, not looking up from his side of the motivator. How decadent, Hux thinks. It fits with the era of the ship; late Galactic Republic, he’d hazard. Hux leaves him to it, wincing a little at the dull ache from his still-healing leg when he shifts his weight to stand.

A gaunt, pale-skinned corpse stares out at Hux from the mirror beside the ‘fresher. He’s never exactly had much of a sunny complexion, but the recent weeks in combination with his poorly-shaved head make him look frankly necrotic. Beneath the bacta patch carefully positioned on his chest Hux finds the healing brand-mark, turning from a vivid red to a pale white against his skin. Solo hadn’t been swift enough to prevent a scar, though it would be far more prominent if he hadn’t treated it at all. Hux runs his fingers around its curve and remembers the agony, the humiliation, the disbelief. It makes him shudder.

The hot water is welcome, raising an unfamiliar flush on his skin and a kind of clarity to his mind. He has promised Solo nothing and has no intention of helping him. He will go with him because it will be easier to humour him than to try and seize the ship, but if Hux loses Solo on Nal Hutta perhaps he can find a transport to its moon and seek out Falynn Tok. The thought of working for the Hutts may be mortifying, but it’s less so than being dragged around as a lapdog for the rest of his life.

After the benefits of a hot shower and the beginnings of a plan, Hux feels more human even when re-clad in Solo’s scratchy clothing. He corrects his posture in the mirror, finds something approximating his customary sneer, and steps out into the belly of the ship again. She’s dropping out of hyperspace just as Hux edges his way down the corridor to the cockpit. There’s a constant cycle of ships buzzing to and from the planet’s moon, but relatively few craft continue their descent down towards Nal Hutta itself. As Solo makes his approach towards the capital of Bilbousa a sharp, angry voice barks at them in Huttese over the comlink; when Solo is fractionally slow to answer, the ship lets off a warning shot over their bow that makes Hux flinch. Clearly not fond of visitors, then.

Hux has no idea what Solo says in reply, but the other ship peels off and they’re left to descend unhindered to the spaceport below. She glides down through the thick, toxic-looking mists and settles into a bay near the outskirts of the city. It’s an uninspiring sight, few buildings more than a storey or two high and dwarfed by the giant nasty-looking roots that throw themselves out of the ground in gnarled arcs. Where there is space between the buildings the ground is covered in a multitude of brown-green shrubs, leaves glistening slimily with the mist.

Solo completes the post-flight checks and shrugs on a thick leather jacket that must be more of a hindrance than a help in this kind of muggy atmosphere. Hux realises that whilst Solo has both a blaster and a saber strapped to his belt, he is utterly defenceless. “You expect me to wander around out there unarmed?” he asks peevishly.

“I expect you not to get far away enough to need your own blaster,” Solo says flatly over his shoulder, stalking off towards the open hatch. Hux shoots his back a vicious glare. In fairness, he probably wouldn’t trust him with a weapon either if their positions were reversed. Solo disappears down the access hatch; Hux pulls in a sigh, scrubs his nails over his fuzz of hair, and gingerly makes his way across the common room to join him.

The stifling humidity hits Hux in the face the moment he descends. The air tastes foul when he sucks in a breath, licked at the edges by the scent of rotting vegetation, the smell so overpowering that Hux almost forgets to turn and get a proper look at Solo’s ship as they walk out of the landing bay. She’s as sleek and silver as her bright interior suggests, the viewport into the captain’s cabin camouflaged from the outside so that the rest of the exterior is one smooth piece of durasteel save for the cockpit. She looks not unlike Phasma’s helmet would sitting on its head; she also looks unbelievably out of place in Bilbousa’s grubby landing bay.

Hux has been through a number of spaceports in the past few weeks, and certain elements have become depressingly universal. Nal Hutta is clearly hostile to outsiders, but the little pack of Jawas squabbling over a pile of parts is unsurprising, as are the dark figures of bounty hunters skulking through the nearby alleyways. Solo seems entirely unbothered by the illicit nature of the port’s clientele, picking his way easily through the narrow streets and ignoring the appraising looks cast their way. With his limp and barely more than his shirtsleeves and no blaster at his hip, Hux feels extremely exposed.

At length Solo pauses at the edge of a plaza, decorated in the centre by a kind of low shrubbery Hux supposes is vaguely ornamental when compared to the rest of the local flora. The low buildings to their right look to mostly be hotel accommodation, with a cantina on the opposite side of the square and some kind of transport hub on the left.

Apparently unflustered by the dank smell, Solo leans casually up against a nearby wall and watches the fleet of speeders depositing pundits to the city. After a few minutes suffering in the muggy heat, Hux loses what’s left of his patience. “What in seven hells are we here for?” he snaps.

“Just wait,” Solo murmurs. He has his bloody eyes closed. Hux hates this new, zenlike version of Kylo Ren even more than he hated the bratty original. “You’ll figure it out.”

Fed up to the back teeth of Solo’s stupid mysticism, Hux takes off for a stroll around the little square to scope out potential points of egress. He doubts he could make it over to one of the speeders before Solo caught on and tried to stop him, and he’s little desire to go wandering off down a back alley without so much as a blaster to hand. When he glances at Solo, still leaning unflappably up against the wall where he left him, Hux finds the bastard is smirking.

Something makes the hairs rise on the back of Hux’s neck. He’s being watched, and not just by Solo. Hux doesn’t let it faze him, keeping his stride slow and even as he continues his way around the little square, and within a few minutes he’s located the source; a dark figure lurking near the cantina’s doorway. He panics for a moment that it might be some damned trooper intent on capturing him, but even as the thought occurs to him he catches sight of the man’s face, briefly illuminated by a patron shoving past him to get inside.

It’s Barak Juka.

Hux flicks a nervous look back at Solo; he doesn’t seem to have noticed Hux’s stumble. Juka slips inside the cantina, and Hux speeds across the square to follow him rather less subtly than he should.

Inside is the usual mix of reprobates Hux has come to expect from such awful places, the hot stench of the close air thick with a hundred species’ sweat as well as its natural funk. Juka leads him to a cubbyhole tucked away behind the bar, hidden from sight from the entrance, and when he lowers his hood they stare at one another like drowning men being offered a rope.

Eventually, Juka huffs out a steady breath. “You look awful,” he says.

“Ren’s here,” Hux replies, cross with himself for wasting time now that the spell has been broken. “I think he means to kill you.”

Juka, seemingly unbothered, gives Hux a slow, calculating look. “I heard you were dead,” he says calmly.

“Surprise,” Hux answers flatly, and jerks his chin back towards the door. “Now go.”

“Where?”

Hux rolls his eyes. “I don’t care, just get out of here.”

“And you?”

Hux hesitates. If Solo was able to track Juka here, then there’s little point in them joining forces. Perhaps if he can shake Solo later they could find one another again. “Not your concern.”

Juka nods. “Good luck,” he says, and melts silently back into the crowd.

Hux waits inside the cantina for as long as he can bear the smell, and then picks his way back out to the little plaza. Solo hasn’t moved, his eyes still closed, his expression calm; some of the locals are glancing rather conspicuously at the saber hanging at his thigh. He opens his eyes as Hux draws close. “The bounty on him is enough to buy a spacecraft,” he murmurs once Hux is within earshot. “The next hunter might not be as merciful.”

Hux is overcome with rage, a simmering anger that had already tightened tenfold with every step he took from the cantina. “Why in the stars did you think I’d help you?” he hisses.

The look Solo gives him is infuriatingly calm. “You’re purposeless,” Solo says. “Like I was.”

Hux stares back at him, utterly aghast. “So after torturing me and destroying my life’s work on a whim, you thought I’d agree to helping you murder my colleagues.”

Solo tilts his head. “The Order is finished,” he says evenly. “It’s not coming back.”

It’s still too fresh, too raw to see it spat out so calmly by the man most instrumental in its downfall. “Then kill me,” Hux snarls, stepping forward further into Solo’s space. “You said it yourself, you’re a merciful assassin.”

Solo says nothing, does nothing. He simply stands there with his arms crossed against the mucky wall and waits for Hux to run out his temper, like he is a bloody child throwing a tantrum. Fuck this, Hux thinks viciously, turning on his heel and marching back towards the cantina.

Unbelievably, Solo comes after him. “What are you doing?” Hux snaps as Solo draws level, easily matching his stride.

“Following you,” Solo replies breezily. “What are you doing?”

Hux clenches his jaw. If Solo wants to be his babysitter, then so be it. Perhaps he’ll lower his guard and Hux will find a way to rid the galaxy of his filth once and for all. “I thought I’d go back to that shithole and get extremely drunk,” he says shortly, and tries to ignore the way Solo’s face splits into a lopsided smile.

I’m going to die, Hux thinks. This is it. This is the end of me.

Somewhere outside of the wavering radius of Hux’s nausea, Solo loudly snorts. “Don’t be so dramatic,” Hux hears him say; he opens one bleary eye to glare at him, and all the light in the galaxy tries to bore its way inside his skull. His mouth is sour with vomit and his skin is sticky with sweat. Solo hands him a drink in a clay cup, steaming slightly and sickly-sweet. “What is this?” he croaks.

“It’ll help,” Solo ominously replies.

Too desperate to argue, Hux takes the cup and downs it. “It’s vile,” he gasps, trying not to gag, but even as he says it the dull pounding behind his eyes begins to relent. With utmost slowness, Hux sits up on the bed. Judging by the view out of the open window, they’re in the hotel adjacent to the cantina. The bed is too small for humans; Hux’s whole body aches from being scrunched up to fit. Solo, sat cross-legged on the floor, looks insufferably smug. Hux mutters a curse at him under his breath, scrubbing his face with his hand; then Solo grins, reaches behind him and brings out a pack of cigarras.

The bitter taste of the rich tabacc chases the foulness out of his mouth and pushes the tension out of his body, and between that and Solo’s miracle cure he begins to feel almost alive again. Hux smokes in silence, watching Solo closely as the muggy sunlight falls through the window and blooms across his face. The man won’t kill him. He’s clearly tasked with the mission of bringing the remainder of the Order to heel; it seems extremely unlikely that he’d let Hux flee. Hux doesn’t fancy his chances in overcoming him. For all he knows, Solo could look inside his head and predict every move before Hux even decided on it.

There are other ways to victory, though. Other ways to freedom.

“So this is how you achieve salvation,” Hux says, in time.

Solo makes a face. “I hardly think hunting down old men is the path to redemption,” he mutters. “I’m not sure there is one for people like us.”

Like us, Hux thinks. “What happened to Torbin?”

“I’m not sure,” he admits with a shrug. “I think my mother would be merciful.”

Hux can’t help his surprise; not just that Organa would take pity on them, but that Torbin would want her to. “They stayed behind?”

“They wanted to help.”

Hux frowns. “Then why did they aid our escape?”

“They owed me a life debt,” Solo replies. “I brought them back from what they were. If I hadn’t, they’d have died like the others.”

“The others,” Hux echoes slowly; the other Knights, he means. “You killed them.”

“I gave them all the same choice I gave you,” Solo says, his voice steady and calm. “The others all chose death.”

Hux clenches his jaw, glaring thin-lipped out of the open window. That bloody hypocrite, he thinks. “So you accepted their choice but not mine.”

Solo’s mouth twists up. “I thought you could change,” he mutters after a moment. “Like Torbin did.”

Hux snorts. “For once,” he spits, “I’m extremely glad to disappoint.”

Solo all but frogmarches him back to the _Kilonova_ once Hux has cleaned himself up and put back on the clothes from the day before. He’s desperate to wear something else, something not either soiled with Solo’s sweat or made putrid by days of incarceration, but he hasn’t exactly any way to acquire an alternative.

As Solo makes the pre-flight checks, Hux indulges his curiosity by investigating the two rooms which flank the cockpit. One is locked; likely a storeroom, bristling with weapons and valuables Solo doesn’t want him to steal. The other is a little guest cabin, just big enough to house a tiny sonic ‘fresher and bunks for two.

Hux’s sum possessions in the galaxy are the clothes on his back and the pack of cigarras Solo had handed him back on Nal Hutta. He shrugs off the tunic, drops it haphazardly on one of the bunks, and tucks the pack of cigarras under the pillow. He watches through the viewport at the foot of the bed as the ship enters hyperspace, feeling that little twist of force in the base of his gut that always takes hold when a smaller ship makes the jump.

The cabin door slides open; Solo stands for a moment inside the frame, scowling at the universe in general and Hux in specific. “I picked up some supplies while you were passed out on Nal Hutta,” he says, dropping a soft package onto Hux’s bed before stomping away again. They’re clothes, thank the stars, a few sets of shirts, trousers, and underwear far more in Solo’s shabby style than the Order’s. In that moment Hux doesn’t give a damn, merely grateful for the small mercy of washing himself in the little sonic ‘fresher and putting on something clean afterwards.

When Hux emerges from the cabin in search of something to eat, he finds Solo sat cross-legged at the pull-down table and fiddling with a small mound of droid parts. Hux settles on the sofa, watching with deep amusement as Solo attempts to solder a binary circuit matrix to a hexaflow energy transistor for a good ten minutes; Solo doesn’t even need the Force to sense Hux’s scorn. At length, he throws the pieces down onto the table and snaps, “Go on, then. Show me.”

Hux rises with an air of deep resentment, bypassing the table entirely to fish out some more useful parts from the larger pile on the floor. “Didn’t you build your own saber? Or is that a silly Jedi tradition?”

“That’s different,” Solo says vaguely, watching with interest as Hux rifles through the pile. Hux confiscates the soldering iron for a pair of wire shears and gets Solo to strip the plasticoat off some of the durasteel cabling while he fixes his mess. Solo pays more attention to what Hux is doing than the actions of his own hands, and Hux supposes he only has the Force to thank for not slicing his finger open. “How is it you know how to do this?” Solo asks, once Hux has separated the botched components and begun work on the transistor.

Hux shoots him a look. “Am I not allowed a hobby?”

Solo grins. “A vice and a hobby,” he murmurs wryly. “Didn’t think you’d have both.”

Hux feels his mouth twist up in something like a smile; he endeavours swiftly to overcome it. “Repairing droid mechanics wasn’t part of your cushy Republic upbringing, then,” he replies.

Solo shakes his head. “My grandfather used to make droids,” he answers, after a while.

“Well, it’s a better pastime than slaughtering younglings,” Hux says flatly, and Solo snorts. Hux glances at him, feels something clench inside his chest at the warmth in his expression. It’s a soft, gentle thing that never would have appeared on Kylo Ren’s face. “I never understood why you revered him,” Hux adds. “Vader stands for nothing but failure.”

Solo shrugs. “Snoke told me Skywalker corrupted him,” he murmurs. “That he manipulated him, just as he manipulated me. At the time it was what I wanted to hear.”

They work in silence for a time, Solo with his cabling and Hux meticulously prying open the broken caps on the transistor for replacement. “You could do this for them,” Solo says; when Hux glances up, he’s simply sat there watching Hux work. “For the Republic. Design things, build things.”

Wonderful. Life advice from the eternal deserter. “It would be perceived as atonement,” he says coolly. “I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done.”

Solo tilts his head, curious. “You care that much about what other people think?”

Hux lets out a bark of laughter; he can’t help it. What a fucking hypocrite. “Alright,” he says flatly, “I also don’t want to help your silly little republic. And for a man who was once so determined to have galaxy-wide domination that he took up the title _Supreme Leader_ – ”

On the table right beside Hux’s hand, a little lightbulb explodes into hot shards of glass. When Hux looks up, Solo’s face is a rictus of fury and embarrassment, red cheeks and a heavy scowl. So Kylo Ren is still buried in there somewhere, Hux realises. And not even all that deeply.

Hux lets his lip curl into a sneer and resumes his work without another word. He lets his mind sink back into the haze of arithmetic, interrupted only by the practical needs of making adjustments to the circuitry, and it isn’t long before a pair of little bright eyes sits disembodied but responsive in the middle of the table. They dart nervously around, clearly concerned by Solo’s pair of shears, and Hux flips off the power to save them blowing a fuse from worry. He wonders if Solo finds his aptitude with droid mechanics as unexpected as he finds Solo’s aptitude in the kitchen.

“I never realised it meant that much to you,” Solo says; it almost makes Hux jump. He’d half-forgotten Solo was even there. “I thought – the Order, it was just – ”

“Yes,” Hux snaps, cutting him off with a glare. “To you it was _just_. Everything is.”

Solo doesn’t look angry, or offended. If anything, he’s eyeing Hux with pity. “I got a lead on Vake,” Solo adds.

Dread begins to pool in the pit of Hux’s stomach. “How many more are left?” he asks, trying to keep his tone nonchalant.

“Including you?”

Hux shoots him a look. He can’t decide for a moment whether or not Solo is trying to be funny. “No.”

“Five,” Solo answers, and Hux just about manages not to flinch. It’s almost worse than none. It’s typical, Hux bitterly reflects, that Solo should be slapdash even in his approach to his own redemption. “I thought you might enjoy the excuse to get rid of him.”

Hux snorts. “Not as part of your doomed attempt at saving my soul.”

“I told you,” Solo says quietly. “This isn’t about that.”

Hux doesn’t reply. He wonders whether or not Solo’s question as to whether he should include Hux in that number had been a threat. He wants to be Solo’s pet even less than he wants to be his prisoner, but as far as Hux can see the only other options he has are to kill him or let him go. As it stands, Hux cannot imagine him doing either.

The smell of caf greets Hux when he next steps out of his cabin. With it comes a fleeting memory of standing with Juka in the council chamber on Naboo that makes his heart clench in his chest. If Solo notices, he doesn’t comment; he’s sat with his legs tucked beneath him on the ugly sofa, working on a datapad. “There’s food, too,” Solo says, nodding towards the workbench of the little kitchenette.

It’s some kind of thick rich broth with vegetables and noodles; it smells delicious. Hux helps himself to a generous portion and takes it over to where Solo is sitting, wondering yet again how Solo learnt such an unexpected skill. “I spend a lot of time travelling alone,” Solo says, seemingly from nowhere; except, of course, it absolutely isn’t. “And rehydrated ration packs are gross.”

Hux clenches his jaw. “Stop that,” he snaps, shooting Solo a glare. Solo doesn’t even look up from his datapad.

The navcom chirps. Solo disappears into the cockpit, and moments later Hux watches through the nearest viewport as they drop out of hyperspace. He doesn’t recognise the planet; its surface is populated by patches of vivid green spread piecemeal through huge, bright blue oceans. Solo guides the ship effortlessly through the atmosphere, ignoring the clustered lights of the cities to set her down somewhere in the leafy wilderness.

“I’ll be back before sunrise,” Solo says, striding from the cockpit and down the stairs to his cabin. Hux waits until Solo’s zoomed out of sight on the single speeder in the cargo bay; then he descends through the access hatch and stands inside the shadow of the ship, looking out into the darkness. The night is silent except for the chatter of wildlife, and even in the light spilling from the cockpit window Hux can’t see anything other than fifty feet of trees and dirt. He isn’t desperate enough to set out into the wilderness on an unknown planet with nothing except what he can scrounge. He glances round one more time at the encroaching dark and traipses back inside to finish his meal.

Hux wakes drenched in sweat and with Solo sat on the opposite bed, his hair a straggled mess and thick with muck. He’d been dreaming of Cantonica, of scorching acrid heat that scoured the breath from him, of the smell of his own burning flesh when the brand had hit his skin. Wild-eyed and half-asleep, he nearly strikes out at Solo from pure fear; then calm washes over him, instant and heady and utterly false.

“Stop it,” Hux gasps, and the panic returns. It is less potent than before, enough that Hux is able to calm himself with a handful of steady breaths, a reminder of where he is and that Solo, whatever else, doesn’t pose an immediate threat. In truth, the more awake he feels the more Hux begins to doubt that judgement; Solo looks horrendous. The air around them seems to crackle with that familiar ozone-smell, prompting a thousand memories of when he’d borne a different name and been at the very edge of his control. Hux thinks he understands; he too knows what it feels like to kill a man. That rush of power, bloodrage, and joy as their pitiful little life flickers out.

“His name was Clow Durane,” Solo says, his thoughts apparently running the same way as Hux’s. “The man who attacked you on Naboo. He’d been undercover in your sister’s staff for years.”

Hux’s eyes narrow. “You knew?”

“Not then. When I heard – ” He cuts himself off, shaking a little with some unknown feeling, hate or fright or fury. The buzzing in Hux’s ears heightens to a roar. “I didn’t do it to save you,” Solo adds in a rush, an apparent nonsequitur. “When I broke you out. I wasn’t being merciful. I wasn’t being kind.”

Hux doesn’t know how to answer this. He feels suddenly and very acutely as though he must act carefully not to meet the same fate as Zyla Vake. He sits up properly on the bed, letting his feet touch the cool hard floor in case he needs to run – not that he has even the smallest chance of victory. “Revenge, then,” he hazards, a little more shakily than he’d like.

Solo shakes his head. “I was selfish,” he murmurs. “I did it because I wanted to.”

Slowly, astonishingly, Solo sinks to his knees between Hux’s open legs. His eyes are huge in the darklight, full of want and black as seven hells, and Hux suddenly cannot breathe. You tortured me, Hux thinks, at first full of disbelief, and then again full of rage, you _tortured_ me –

“I know,” Solo hoarsely replies, and then he leans up and kisses him.

For a long, awful moment, Hux is frozen still. Then his instincts kick in and unforeseen desire winds up his spine; he leans into it, sliding a hand into Solo’s filthy hair and pulling his fingers tight. Solo whines his obvious pleasure, kissing Hux with unsurprising viciousness and unexpected skill. When Hux pulls back, his fisted hand still tight in Solo’s hair, Solo’s expression is open and dazed. He watches Hux wet his own lips with visible desire, black eyes blown with lust; but he makes no move to break out of Hux’s grip, waiting for his sign. The power in it makes Hux dizzy.

The first light of day slants across Solo’s face through the tiny viewport, and it breaks Hux’s febrile control with a sickening jolt. Solo jerks back, rising to his feet in one elegant movement and avoiding Hux’s eye. “Not here,” he mutters, shaky with subdued desire as he all but flees the room. “Meet me downstairs.”

Hux takes a moment to steady himself, listening to the sounds of the pre-flight checks filtering in from the neighbouring cockpit. The possibilities unfolding before him, between them, are dizzying. Hux watches the little clearing disappear into a pinprick smudge as the _Kilonova_ lifts off and jumps into the sky. He’s always known there are other ways to power. Other ways to freedom. Other ways to victory.

Hux hadn’t lingered in the captain’s cabin when he woke there before, too keen to scope out the rest of the ship, to find his point of escape. Solo keeps it surprisingly clean; Hux had half-expected piles of dirty laundry to be strewn about the place like some grubby adolescent’s haunt. Alone, Hux paces around the little room, smoking a cigarra and only half-noticing the ramshackle assortment of personal effects. There are some shelves containing datapads, one or two actual books, closets with clothes in various designs, all more practical than ceremonial. He’s barely looked them over when a strange shift in the air around him alerts him to Solo’s arrival. He can’t explain the change, but the sensation of Solo’s gaze, his attention, his energy wholly focused on Hux as he steps into the cabin lands across his shoulders like a leaden weight.

Solo crosses the room in tight steps, drops to his knees in front of Hux to look up at him, silent and attentive and waiting, just as he had before. It gives Hux the odd sensation of having left a holofilm on pause. Hux feeds his fingers back into Solo’s hair, sucking on the cigarra and watching with heady delight as Solo leans forward and rests his forehead against Hux’s belly, his warm breath washing over Hux’s cock through his leggings. Solo mouths its shape along the fabric, and Hux has to bite down hard on his lip to hold in a grunt.

Hux finishes the cigarra, stubbing it out on the nearest wall and dropping it casually to the floor. His fingers in Solo’s hair tighten to pull his face back into view; his eyes are blown and his mouth is slick with spit. “What do you want?” Hux asks, his voice steadier than he’d anticipated.

“Anything,” Solo says, and Hux slaps him.

It’s an ugly, backhand thing that leaves a mark blooming in its wake, and Solo’s face darkens with disbelief and fury. Something rattles and falls off the shelf beside them; Hux doesn’t look away, watches Solo regain control of himself with both fascination and delight. “Don’t lie to me,” he says, once he’s confident he has Solo’s full attention.

Solo glares up at him with a heady mix of anger and lust. “I want to fuck you,” he snaps bluntly, and Hux feels a shiver of pleasure roll up his spine.

“Better,” he murmurs, tracing his fingers apologetically over the red darkening on Solo’s cheek, and Solo’s eyes flutter shut. He rests one finger beneath Solo’s chin, guides him to his feet and then kisses him chastely. “Get on the bed,” Hux says, and watches with pleasure as Solo walks away from him and over to the bed, his every movement a lethal mixture of power and grace. He tugs off his shirt unbidden, throws Hux a look as he kneels down on the bed and then spreads himself out in the middle of it.

After a moment to steady his jittering pulse, Hux follows him. He unbuttons his shirt with careful movements, folds it and drapes it over a chair before he sits across Solo’s lap, allowing himself a fleeting flush of pleasure at the feeling of Solo’s half-hard dick against him through their clothing. The scar on Solo’s chest is such an ugly thing, twisting and snarled, healed now to a dark, ruby red. Hux traces the shape of it, from his forehead, down his neck and to the end of it just below his ribcage. He remembers the sounds of fury and pain that Solo had made when they’d scooped him up from the snow, how Hux had sat as far away as possible in the tiny ship and blocked them out.

“Hux,” Solo murmurs, seemingly just for the pleasure of it, and want begins to pool as liquid heat at the base of Hux’s spine. He leans forward to kiss Solo again, hums his approval when Solo works Hux’s leggings down his thighs to take his cock in hand. The shock of the sensation is almost too much; in that moment, Hux can’t even remember the last time someone touched him so intimately. He pulls away, breathing a little raggedly as he watches Solo’s hand slide up and down his cock, slow and excruciatingly gentle.

Hux doesn’t want gentle. He tightens his fingers in Solo’s hair and mutters _enough_. It gives Solo pause, lets Hux sit back across Solo’s stomach and regain some semblance of control, to strip them both of their remaining clothes with more efficiency than style. When Hux settles back across his stomach, Solo has begun to slick his fingers with medical lube summoned from stars-knows-where, his dark eyes fixed on Hux. Anticipation curls in Hux’s chest, a sharp mix of excitement, desire, and nerves. “I’m out of practice,” Hux admits, his tone short.

“Yeah?” Solo breathes, biting his lower lip as he reaches round Hux to slick up his dick with the leftover lube, his stomach clenching under Hux’s thighs at the kick of pleasure from the contact. “I’ll go slow,” he adds, a kindness to his tone that Hux instantly resents.

Out of practice is a far cry from virginal, and Hux has always loathed feeling coddled. “Open your mouth,” Hux demands, shuffling forward ungracefully on his knees until his cock lines up with Solo’s mouth. He takes Hux in with obvious pleasure, big eyes fluttering shut and humming at the sensation of Hux’s dick hitting the back of his throat. It’s so poor an angle, so shallow that Hux had been fairly confident it wouldn’t be enough to bring him off, but after a few moments the combination of the visual and the pressure of Solo’s slick fingers on his taint is already tightening the heat coiled at the base of Hux’s gut. “Fuck,” he hears himself spit, his hips snapping forward of their own accord as Solo starts to roll his tongue. Perhaps it would be better if he let Solo take the edge off –

Solo ducks his head forward and opens his throat just as he pushes two fingers into Hux’s ass, and Hux comes so hard and so fast that he barely knows it’s happening. It scorches like a supernova through him, rolling in endless, unrelenting waves through his body, his mind branded with the image of Ben Solo on his knees and begging for his pleasure. When he comes back to himself, still unconsciously rolling his cock lazily in and out of Solo’s mouth through the aftershocks, the bastard looks unbelievably smug.

Hux takes a moment to sit back across Solo’s chest and attempt to catch his breath. Solo’s swollen lips are slick with spit and come; his cheeks are red and flushed and wet with sweat. He looks fucking beautiful, and Hux wants to rip him apart. If Hux can’t remember the last time he was touched, he certainly can’t remember the last time he was fucked. He can barely remember the last time he got himself off, which might explain why he came like a bloody teenager in the first minute. As someone whose sexual stamina and skill used to be a point of great personal pride, Hux almost wants to sulk off and lick his wounds; instead, he waits with characteristic patience for his blood to settle, for the shivering to run its course.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” Solo murmurs, and the rough freshly-fucked rasp to it makes Hux shudder. Loose strands of Solo’s hair have fallen across his forehead, stuck to the skin with sweat, and as Hux lifts a jelly-like arm and gently strokes them back into place Solo closes his eyes and leans into the touch. In this moment, Hux thinks, he’d do anything I asked of him, and Solo opens his eyes to grin at him, vicious.

Solo’s fingers start to press inside of him again, and Hux’s mind narrows to the thick of it, the uncomfortable pressure and the over-stimulation and the burn of his own muscles yielding to Solo’s work. He arches his back, rests his forehead against Solo’s neck, allows himself to enjoy the slowness, the way that the desire begins to intensify from too much to not enough with each slick twist of his hand. His hips begin to rock in sync with Solo’s movements, rendering him briefly unable to stifle a grunt when Solo’s fingertips first skim across his prostate, the sharp zing of pleasure blending with the press of Solo’s thumb below his balls and the slick feeling of his fingers sliding in and out in a heady, dizzying rush.

Hux sits up properly and splays his fingers on Solo’s chest. Solo looks dazed, a strange mix of absolute concentration and total distraction. “Tell me,” Hux demands, and then sucks in a sharp breath as Solo turns two fingers into three. “Fuck. _Tell_ me – ”

“I used to wear a plug all day and wonder if you’d notice,” Solo murmurs, and Hux can’t help but moan at the thought of it, his nails digging hard into Solo’s skin, hips still chasing the motion of Solo’s hand. “Walk around the ship begging for it. Go back to my rooms and bring myself off thinking – ” Hux reaches round and stills Solo’s wrist with an iron grip, trembling paradoxically with the effort of staying still, waiting for the pleasure zipping through his core to dull back from the edge he’d nearly fallen over yet again. Solo stares up at him, utterly transfixed, mouth tight and nose flared and eyes bottomless with pleasure. “Fuck,” he murmurs, tilting his chin up to ask for a kiss. “Fuck, _Hux_.”

When he’s finally regained control, Hux leans forward and complies. Solo kisses him greedily, his free hand coming to grasp fiercely at the nape of Hux’s neck, and there’s a sharp, unending moment where Hux is trapped between Solo’s hands, both equally unrelenting in coaxing out his pleasure. Enough, Hux thinks at last, out of patience, and when Solo pulls back to suck in a breath Hux disentangles them and lies next to him on the bed.

“Come on, then,” he says, and the prissy, unmistakeably imperial tone makes Solo grin. It stirs something jittery in the base of Hux’s gut to have Solo lean over him, to be trapped under the vast slope of his body, to have Solo’s knees either side of his hips as he leans in and kisses him again.

Solo’s hand comes to rest at Hux’s waist, turning him not-so-gently to lie on his front. “I used to dream about having you like this,” Solo continues, biting sharp enough to bruise where Hux’s shoulder meets his neck as he spreads Hux’s legs. “All those stupid little briefings we’d have in your office, I used to sit there and imagine bending you over that huge desk – ”

“Mother of fuck,” Hux groans at the image, and then Solo presses the head of his cock inside of him and it melts away into sharp reality. Stars, but he’s fucking thick, so much so that Hux scrabbles uselessly for purchase on the bedsheets as he continues to push inside. It seems to last forever, on and on and on, the dizzying sensation of resistance morphing into sweet, slow give as Hux’s body opens up to him.

No quantity of self-indulgent fingering could have prepared Hux for this, both for the initial stretch of it and the overwhelming intimacy, that visceral, unparalleled feeling of having another being inside of him. After what seems like an age, Solo’s forehead rests at the top of Hux’s spine, a huge, heavy weight. Hux can feel him shaking with the effort of staying still, can hear his ragged, not-quite-even breaths. The pleasure rolls and tightens through his body, head spinning with lust, powerful enough to make his dick throb but nowhere near enough to get him off. Hux runs out of patience, reaches back and twines his fingers in Solo’s hair, huffs out “Come on, I can handle it, come _on_.”

Solo instantly complies. He fucks Hux with long, uncompromising snaps of his hips that make Hux’s toes curl, waves of white-hot pleasure crashing through his system with overpowering inevitability, spiralling and tightening in the pit of his gut. Solo scoops one arm around Hux’s waist to pull him closer and find an angle where the fat head of his dick slips across Hux’s prostate with every push. Fuck pride, Hux thinks, fuck stamina, shoving back up against Solo’s body and moaning out his pleasure. He can’t help but think of his office back on the _Finalizer_ , of Kylo Ren sat bored and inattentive across the table, examining his nails or staring out the viewport or any other imaginable rudeness; but gone, transformed, morphed into the image of him rising suddenly to stalk around the table, knock away Hux’s datapad, sit across his lap in that enormous chair and –

Solo bites down hard on Hux’s shoulder and comes with a half-grunt, half-scream that coincides with the lights around them briefly flickering out. That crackle in the air is back, the one Hux has always associated with hatred and rage, but now it’s full of desire, lust, pleasure, all the things Hux has denied himself for what feels like decades. He holds on tight to Solo as he fucks out the rest of his orgasm, one hand still tangled in Solo’s hair and the other reaching down to take himself in hand and bring himself off again in rough, fervent strokes, coming almost untouched to the sensation of Solo rocking his hips and driving his softening cock deep inside as he rides out the final waves of his pleasure.

Hux lies on his stomach in an absolute daze, watching the flickering stripes of hyperspace float by. He registers distantly the sensation of Solo pulling out, falling onto his front beside Hux on the bed, just close enough for their arms to touch. They could have had this for years, Hux thinks absently. They could have ruled the galaxy.

Solo holds out his hand above Hux’s head, and the pack of cigarras comes floating across the room to land beside him on the bed. Hux takes one gratefully, leaning in momentarily for a light and then falling back down to lie on his belly against the softness of the sheets, enjoying the rich roll of it through his still-thrumming system. It isn’t long before reality begins to settle over Hux like the swell of some vast ocean, before he begins to feel the unpleasant stickiness between his thighs, the wet mess of the bedsheets beneath his skin, before he begins to remember that the man beside him is the selfsame man who ruined his entire life.

“Hux,” Solo murmurs, and Hux rolls onto his back to look at him. Something clenches in the pit of Hux’s chest, some unnameable twist of feeling that Hux can’t quite describe, a tangled mix of desire and rage and the unmistakeable, all-encompassing feeling of being known. For all that he recognises it, he hasn’t the slightest idea what it means. “Are we going to talk about any of this?”

Hux snorts. “Absolutely not,” he mutters with a scowl. Stars save him from Ben Solo’s newfound need for emotional debriefing.

Solo frowns. “What are you afraid of?” he asks. “It’s coming off you in waves.”

His voice is lilted with the softness Hux remembers from Kylo Ren, the selfsame voice he’d used to interrogate a thousand Resistance captives, the selfsame voice he’d used to torture him not that long ago. Hux’s stomach lurches with recognition, with the creeping feeling of having his mind seen and known without his acquiescence. He takes a moment to ground himself, to suck on the cigarra and calm his nerves, but he can’t quite check his temper. “Why should we need to talk if you can pick and choose what you like from inside my head?” he snaps.

Solo’s face scrunches up, something between embarrassment and resentment. “I deserved that,” he admits.

They fall back into silence, broken only by the ever-present hum of the engines and the sound of their breathing, rhythmic and in sync. “Your family hates me,” Hux says, in time.

“They’re not fond of me either,” Solo mutters. He reaches over, plucks the cigarra from between Hux’s fingers, and takes a drag. “Besides, I’m not my family.”

Hux eyes him curiously. “Surely your mother forgave you,” he says, taking back the cigarra.

Solo shrugs. “She claimed to.” He looks away, out into the silver-black vastness of space. “But I don’t understand forgiveness. I don’t know how it’s possible to look at someone and see past what they’ve done.”

Hux should exploit that confession, he knows. He should use it to twist Solo’s arm for the rest of his days, to remind him that Solo has destroyed everything Hux held dear and is in a way beholden to such forgiveness from Hux, who is unlikely to grant it. But in the moment, something stops him. “You ran away because of something you didn’t understand?” Hux asks with a frown.

Solo’s expression is wry. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he admits with a smile.

Hux sits alone on the messy bed, wrapped up in the dirty bedsheet, and waits for Solo to finish in the ‘fresher. He’s grateful for the solitude, grateful for the grounding way he’s able to lean into the ache crawling up his back, the peace that’s growing in his mind. Before, he had thought his only options were to die or to live as Solo’s prisoner. He is beginning to see the glimmering edges of a third.

Left to his own devices, Hux seizes the chance to look around the room again, draping the sheet around himself as a makeshift robe. Though it is mostly empty of curios, there’s an odd assortment of carved stones on one shelf that make Hux feel strangely queasy just to look at; as he crosses to examine them closer, he notices a little rack of holocards hidden behind them. Careful not to touch the stones, Hux reaches past and pulls a few of them out of place. Each contains a handful of different static holographs, springing to life above the concave disc when Hux thumbs them on; scenery on an unknown planet, Senator Leia Organa in her prime, her arms raised mid-speech. None of them are particularly worn with use, save the last one; it looks battered and well-travelled, scuffed and scratched across its surface. Hux instantly assumes it to be of the girl, or perhaps of Solo’s father.

A tiny little Major Hux springs to life in his own palm, standing at parade rest, and Hux nearly drops the holocard. It’s not an uncommon item; the Order often circulated images of its commanding officers, particularly after their promotion. It’s the sort of thing Solo might have picked up anywhere. Hux puts them all back in place with care, surprised by the steadiness of his hands, and then stands before the viewport in nothing but the bedsheet and stares blankly out into space. He wonders, not for the first time, exactly how long Hux has lived utterly ignorant of this desire. Perhaps Snoke forbade it. Perhaps Solo feared it, knowing how mercenary Hux was capable of being in his own desire for power.

He wonders what would have happened if Solo had acted on it sooner. Back when they were under Snoke’s thrall, or perhaps just after, when Hux had knelt for his new leader and bowed his head in deference. Before the Master of the Knights of Ren found his way back to family, hope, and salvation. He suspects that together they would have ripped up the galaxy and thrown it at their feet.

Perhaps they still will. The path to redemption can be trod in both directions, after all.

Solo leans up against the doorway to the ‘fresher, his damp hair pulled into a braid and the marks from Hux’s nails livid against his cooling skin. “Your turn,” Solo murmurs, moving with languid grace across the room.

“I know where Juka is,” Hux says, once Solo is perhaps half a pace away, and Solo smiles.

The mucky little spaceport is quiet. Clinging as it is to the edge of an asteroid in the wild fringes of the galaxy, it doesn’t even have the dignity afforded to Mos Eisley or Bilbousa by being hosted on an actual planet. It’s barely more than a handful of jury-rigged old Impstars gravlocked onto the crater’s surface, and the fact that they’re only a few feet away from open space at any given moment makes Hux twitchy.

They won’t be there long enough for it to worry him. Juka returned to his dirty little lodgings a good half an hour ago; by he now should be fast asleep. Hux waits for a few passers-by to turn the corner, all of them too interested in preserving their anonymity to give him anything more than a passing glance, and then steals across the corridor and begins the fiddly work of prising open the lock. He catches hold of the door as it springs open in the frame, trying to deaden some of the sound generated by it scraping across the floor, and then slips inside the room.

Juka is lying on the cot, his breaths deep and even. Hux wets his lips, edging across the floor and unsheathing the knife at his belt, near-silent in the gloom. Hux reaches the bed, begins to shift his weight to make the fatal strike, and Juka’s eyes snap open.

A blaster stuffed beneath the blankets fires directly at Hux’s chest, but by some divinely ordained miracle it misses, sending up the acrid smell of scorched fabric. Hux spins neatly on the edge of his foot, flattening against the nearby wall and dodging the flailing hand Juka throws out towards him. The blanket morphs from a cover to a hindrance, tangling around Juka’s legs as he struggles to gain a footing in the tight space and aim again with his blaster. Hux has more than enough opportunity to knock Juka to the ground, kick away his weapon, and stamp down hard on both his wrists to the sickening crack of shattered bone.

Juka looks furious, but also entirely unsurprised. Hux supposes that the Order had never exactly engendered a spirit of cooperation in its leadership; he doubts Juka would hesitate if their positions were reversed. Hux squats down, takes a moment to savour the fear and the rage in Juka’s eyes, and then brings the knife across his throat in one smooth arc.

It’s quick, but it isn’t clean. Juka’s lifeblood spills out into the drab beige fabric of the blanket, and Hux watches the light go out in Juka’s eyes with something like feral satisfaction. Hux hears the rattle of Juka’s final breath, sees the last spasm of his broken frame. Once Juka is still, Hux sheathes his knife and searches the little room for anything of interest without success; then he leaves Juka where he is, save for re-locking the door behind him. There seems little sense in taking care to clean the place of evidence. No one here cares about Barak Juka save for him, and Hux is walking around with a dead man’s fingerprints.

The corridor outside is empty. Hux keeps his paces short and even as he traces his steps back through the port, trying to school his expression back to neutrality as the vicious, unrelenting pleasure of the kill scours through his system. By the time he’s climbing up the access hatch to the _Kilonova_ , his hands are trembling and he’s dizzy with the adrenaline. Solo is waiting for him in the common room; he lets out a low noise of obvious pleasure when Hux exits the hatch, his eyes blowing dark as he crosses the room. “I can smell it on you,” Solo breathes, hand gripping the singed fabric. “Fuck, _Hux_.”

“Kneel,” Hux instantly says, and Solo does. He’s been half-hard since he left Juka’s corpse cooling on the dirty floor, and now with Solo’s warm hands parting his thighs his trousers are woefully tight. Solo takes off each of his boots, his socks, carefully peels down his trousers and folds them neatly on the floor, one hand coming back to cup at Hux’s ankle, kissing the inside of Hux’s thigh. “Good,” Hux murmurs, and Solo shudders. “Up.”

Solo rises. His hands are quick and deft on the buttons of Hux’s shirt, and Hux’s blood is singing with the burning mix of pleasure, death, and absolute control. “Hux,” Solo says again, pushing the shirt off his shoulders and folding it to sit atop the rest of the pile on the floor. Hux turns and walks over to the sofa, revels in the weight of Solo’s gaze on him as he goes, and then shoots him a sharp look over his shoulder as if to say _heel_.

Solo follows him, yanking off his own clothes and throwing them haphazardly around the room. Hux almost admonishes him for it, but then Solo is lifting him bodily and falling back against the sofa so that Hux sits astride his lap, and Hux’s attention has morphed into the way Solo’s nails dig into his thighs, the way Solo’s cock curves up towards his belly, already leaking at the tip.

Hux fists a hand in Solo’s hair, sits forwards so that he can grind their hips together, a strong, tight burn of sensation that isn’t quite strong enough to get him close. He’s still loose and open from where Solo had him, hours before, and the temptation to slide onto Solo’s dick is almost too much to bear. He doesn’t; he has something he needs to prise from Solo first, and he’s more likely to get it when Solo is on the edge and begging for it.

“He died in silence,” Hux says, barely more than a murmur. “On the floor in the dirt like a dog.” Solo whines, a high, tight noise strangled at the back of his throat, and he raises one hand from Hux’s thigh to summon his trousers from across the room. It’s undeniably strange, watching the little bottle of slick bob unheeded out of the pocket and open itself onto Solo’s hand, but it’s wholly worth the look it conjures on Solo’s face, hazy eyes visibly struggling with the necessary concentration.

Solo’s freshly-slicked hand wraps around their cocks and they groan in glorious sync, Hux’s head dropping back as his toes curl. Hux rises onto his knees, moving forward as Solo shuffles down, and he holds himself just so the head of Solo’s dick rests behind his balls. Solo’s mouth is slack, his eyes blown, and his nails are dug deep into Hux’s hips, undoubtedly hard enough to bruise. “Hux,” Solo mumbles again, like it’s the only word he knows.

He looks down into Solo’s face, searching, waiting. His eyes are huge and full of some tangled mix of lust and need and disbelief, and Hux knows what he wants is in there somewhere. He just has to eke it out. Hux rolls his hips, sliding Solo’s cock back and forth along his taint. His fingers tighten viciously in Solo’s hair. “Say it,” Hux commands, his voice like iron even as his own resolve begins to crumble. “ _Say it_.”

“ _Mine_ ,” Solo snarls, fucking up into him in one cruel stroke, and Hux knows that he has won.


	4. a god to a nonbeliever

Hux keeps his eyes trained on the entrance to the little marketplace, smoking like a chimney and scowling out into the driving rain. He’s been waiting there for the best part of an hour, and he hates being wet almost as much as he hates being cold; this far into its rainy season Lothal has both in spades. Ben appears briefly to give the signal from the upper terrace to his right: no sign. Hux confirms as much with his reply, a short flick of his hand that resembles brushing mud from the sleeve of his coat.

A burst of wind flings rain directly at Hux under the parapet, and his ice-cold clumsy fingers drop the cigarra into the muck. Wonderful, Hux thinks sourly, staring down at the little stub in the overturned earth. “Need a light?” perks up a voice from his side, and Hux looks over to see a handsome-looking humanoid with pale, greenish skin. Aesthetic implants are something of a fashion in this part of the Outer Rim; Hux cannot be wholly certain whether or not the Zabrak-like spikes on their head are authentic or not.

“Please,” Hux says sweetly, leaning in and letting the pose linger as they light his new cigarra. “Are you local?”

The humanoid shakes their head. “Running spice over to Cholganna,” they say with the ease of someone far away from the jurisdiction of both the Hutts and the newfound Commonwealth. “You in the trade?”

“Sadly, no,” Hux says with a theatrical sigh. “But I wouldn’t mind – ”

The humanoid goes entirely still. They look not unlike what happens to a protocol droid when its switch is flipped, their arms strangely stiff against their side and their eyes staring glassily away into the distance. “Stop it,” they snap suddenly; but Hux knows they’re speaking Ben Solo’s words. “Watch your sector.”

Hux smirks. “Possessiveness is unbecoming for a Jedi,” he replies sweetly, resisting the temptation to turn and find Ben again in the crowd. “Besides, who’s watching the road if you’re watching me?”

As quickly as it came, the spell breaks. The humanoid gives him a puzzled, slightly frightened look and hurries off back in the direction of the market’s entranceway. Hux’s smirk stays firmly in place as he finishes the cigarra and drops the butt down next to its twin in the muck. He is half-beginning to wonder whether or not their intel was a crock of nonsense; then the barrel of a pistol jabs him quite suddenly in the spine. “Scream and I’ll shoot,” a muffled voice says.

Hux rolls his eyes. Solaku had always been a fool, but even for him this is spectacularly stupid. The wooden door behind him gives way, creaking on noisy hinges as Solaku pulls him inside and steps back far enough to prevent Hux knocking away his blaster. “General,” Hux says smoothly. “You look as porcine as ever. Glad to see exile hasn’t interfered with your diet.”

Under his comically oversized hood, Solaku’s upper lip trembles with fury. “Your father would be ashamed,” he spits. Hux’s estimation of the man drops even lower than he thought possible.

“My father is dead,” he says flatly. “I should know, I had him murdered.” The unmistakeable sound of bodies dropping to the ground filters through from street outside; Hux grins. “You really should have just shot me,” Hux says cheerily. “You’ve only made him cross.”

Solaku’s beady eyes glance between Hux and the doorway, deprived of his way to freedom. In a single and reliably stupid move, he bounds across the little space and grabs hold of Hux by the armpit, jamming his blaster into Hux’s neck and dragging him in front of him as a shield. The door blows open and slams up against the opposite wall with an almighty clang, and Ben stands in the doorway wreathed in fury and vengeance. He takes in the scene with absolute impassivity, from Hux’s bored expression to the trembling blaster in Solaku’s hand.

“Now,” Ben chides, his voice smooth and dark. “There’s no need for that.”

“Let me go,” Solaku blurts, shuffling just a half-inch backwards towards the wall. “Let me go, and he – ”

Ben throws his saber in one clean arc across the room, aiming for Solaku’s forehead and striking true. Hux steps neatly aside; Ben summons his saber back to his hand and slashes yet another blow, slicing off his head as his corpse falls to the ground.

They stand either side of Solaku’s body. Ben is breathing hard, the air around him almost black with the stench of death. “I think he’s dead,” Hux says flatly, and to his absolute delight the look Ben Solo gives him is barely shy of belonging to Kylo Ren.

They drift from system to system in the _Kilonova_ , alone and interrupted by nothing but death. Ben has managed to convince himself that hunting down the Order’s generals is an excellent way of proving his change of heart, and Hux sees no reason to persuade him otherwise. Hux instructs him in mechanics and aids him gathering intel and then back on the ship, truly alone and warm with the thrill of victory, Hux guides him to sink to his knees and relinquish any and every part of his control.

Hux has been excruciatingly careful, gently, relentlessly stepping up the process of his influence, and yet whatever he thinks of to test Ben with he always demands more. Once, when they had spent a restless night chasing Wattin through the back alleys of Ord Mantell, Ben had been so desperate that he’d knelt in the blood pooling beside the corpse and begged to suck Hux off, trembling with the strength of it. Hux had laughed, scornfully refused, and then forced Ben to watch as he got himself off back on the _Kilonova_ , fucking himself with his fingers for an age before he allowed himself to come. Ben hadn’t said a word, kneeling there with his slack mouth and his fisted hands across the room, waiting for Hux’s word. Stars, if only Hux had known Ben had this in him before Crait, before Starkiller; but at least now he has the scope to craft it into something more.

They have only Maro left to find when it all comes to an end. They’re heading corewards towards Kashyyyk, sprawled together in the comfortable bed in the captain’s cabin, when Ben goes very still beside him and mutters, “Shit.”

“What is it?” Hux asks, not looking up from his datapad; when Ben stands, dresses in a loose robe, and heads immediately towards the cockpit he needn’t ask further. There’s only one person in the galaxy who would prompt that response.

Hux continues to read in silence, barely taking in the words. After what feels like an age, Ben reappears in the doorway, his shoulders hunched. “We were seen on Lothal,” he says after an excruciating pause. “She didn’t – know about you.”

Hux’s stomach drops. “What?”

“I never told her I found you,” Ben mutters, pacing back across to sit next to him on the bed, scowling out at the universe. “We have to go back to Naboo.” No, Hux thinks, instant and vicious; but Ben’s scowl softens. “If we don’t, they’ll think you’ve turned me,” he replies. “It’s fine, I can sort it.” He catches hold of Hux’s wrist to press a kiss to the palm of his hand. “Trust me.”

From space, nothing about the glossy green-and-blue sheen of Naboo’s surface has changed. A mere matter of weeks before Hux had stood upon the bridge of the _Supremacy_ and looked down on the planet below; now, he watches from the _Kilonova_ ’s cockpit as Ben guides her down towards the city that stands as a crowning jewel in the budding Commonwealth. He’d walked these streets as the most powerful General of the First Order, and now he isn’t sure if he’ll even leave the planet a free man.

Ben lands the _Kilonova_ in the exact same bay he’d once landed his Upsilon shuttle. Hux looks out towards the archway he’d stood under in a different life and watched Kylo Ren depart for what must have been the final time. “Let’s get this over with,” Hux mutters, almost to himself, and strides off towards the access hatch.

He feels Ben follow him, feels the way the air shifts around his body and turns thick as treacle, holding him in place as Ben catches him up; his rage at the restraint skitters uselessly away as Ben cups his face in between his hands and kisses him. “I told you,” Ben murmurs when he pulls away, his big black eyes full of warmth, his lips reddened by the force of it. “I’ll sort it.” Hux feels the power around him melt away; Ben shoots him a grin, bypassing the access hatch to lead him down the corridor into the cargo bay. “C’mon, I’ve got a surprise.”

Hux follows him in, glancing around the cluttered space with vague disinterest. Unlike the _Scattershot_ ’s hold, always to his memory full to bursting, there isn’t much in it except for a few supplies and the sleek speeder; he watches as Ben drags the tarp off it and checks the fuel supplies. “That’s an extremely poor surprise,” Hux says flatly. “I saw it yesterday.”

“Your sister’s under house arrest out in Varykino,” Ben replies, guiding the speeder over to him. “I figured you could use this to go say hello.”

Hux stares at him in furious disbelief. “How long have you known she was safe?” he asks, his voice tight.

“Not long,” Ben insists, backtracking hastily as he realises his error. “I had to convince them you wouldn’t run.” 

Ben steps in close as sunlight begins to stream in through the slowly-opening cargo door. Dameron is waiting for them across the bay, his face splitting into a grin as he spots Ben, waving a little half-salute. Hux’s heart clenches hot and tight in his chest. He’s never been one to share; but this is Ben’s choice, not his.

“Hux,” Ben says gently. “It’s just a check-in. I’ll see you soon.”

There’s an unmistakeable, unconquerable rush to be had at the helm of a speeder, one that Hux hasn’t had in longer than he can remember. He rips through the streets of Theed with a heady satisfaction, and by the time he’s speeding across the open plains towards Varykino he’s adjusted to the roar of the engine and the freezing whip of the wind around his face. In that brief, shining moment it feels like utter freedom.

It takes an hour or so to arrive at the estate, slowed by the necessity of taking the winding roads instead of the miles of airspace above them. It’s been so long since Hux arrived this way that he fears he’s lost on more than one occasion, but in time he’s thrumming along the sweeping yellow path and through the open gates. There are no signs of Commonwealth guards, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. He parks the speeder outside the main house, ignoring the servant who runs out to greet him and striding off towards the gardens in search of Réillata.

A short walk brings him into view of the terrace and his sister. She’s talking to a man he doesn’t know, clad in a servant’s uniform, gesturing with one hand towards the water and clutching a glass of wine to her chest with another. She’s smiling, a small and shy thing, and it stays on her face up until the instant that she catches sight of him in the garden below. It’s only in that moment that Hux remembers that she might have known nothing about his whereabouts either; Juka had thought him dead. She certainly looks like she’s seen a ghost.

“Armitage,” she breathes, shaky and filled with disbelief, and she throws her arms around him as soon as he’s close enough. “Seven hells, darling, you look dreadful.”

“I’d really rather not discuss it,” he says distantly.

“Come along,” she replies rather over-gently, leading him to the table and chairs and gesturing towards a nearby window. “Let me get you a drink.”

They sit in silence as Hux drinks his brandy, first quickly enough to burn his throat and then with greater restrain. He wants to hear what these bastards have forced her to do, what awful task she’s been required to undergo to ascertain this level of freedom; but it’s also a simple joy to merely be in her company. She is, and always has been, the only being in the galaxy who has not sought to control him. She is the only being for whom Hux is more than just his title.

“Are you alright?” he asks in time, looking her over for any sign of the Resistance’s more clandestine work.

“I’m fine,” she insists, staring from his cropped hair to his ill-fitting clothes. “I just can’t believe – they said you died months ago. A shuttle crash. I didn’t ever imagine…”

She seemingly can’t finish. He doesn’t want to tell her what he now knows and cannot forget; that he was indeed destined to die on Jedha. That the guilt and infatuation of the man he most loathes in the galaxy is the only reason he’s still breathing. Hux stares out at the sprawling vision before him, the perfectly-kept garden and the glittering vista of the waiting lake. He remembers how keen he’d felt the urge to plunge into it the last time he’d been there, to wash away his sins and failures and find his strength and power once again.

“So,” she says quietly, once she’s regained her composure. “What now?”

Hux lets out a steady breath. “I’ve been given an assignment,” he says, unwilling to speak further when they are almost certainly being watched. “I should be resuming it soon.”

Réillata nods, as if the news of his supposed disloyalty to the Order is entirely to be expected. “They haven’t made much use of me yet,” she admits. “But I’ve made myself available. I’ve got the proficiency at flattery they’re desperately short of and enough scuttlebutt on the toffs here to last a lifetime.”

“The Order,” Hux says slowly. “You aren’t – ?”

“Let Organa try yet again for her blasted democracy,” Réillata interrupts with a scowl. “I don’t give a flying fuck who runs the galaxy.” Her casual betrayal comes as something of a shock; he’s always assumed her to be as devoted a servant to the cause as him. “I’m more worried about you.”

Hux can’t bear the look of pity on her face. “I’ve got it in hand,” he answers shortly.

Réillata smiles. “That’s what worries me,” she replies, the kindness turning wry.

Hux catches sight of a mercurial flash above the lake, back towards Theed; the _Kilonova_ soars elegantly across the water, leaving beautiful ripples across the surface in its wake. Hux leans over, kisses Réillata briefly on the cheek, and walks briskly to meet Ben at the landing strip.

He knows from the moment that Ben descends from the access hatch that something is wrong. He wears guilt and fear like a shroud, his expression tight and his movements sharp as he crosses the landing strip. “I’ve been reassigned,” he says, as soon as he’s close enough for Hux to hear. “They want me to go help them train the Force-sensitives at the old base.”

Panic and nausea crest in a vicious wave inside Hux’s breast. “And me?” he asks, surprised at the steadiness of his voice. Ben’s face crumples with guilt, and every one of Hux’s fears is confirmed. Hours before, Ben had lain with him on the _Kilonova_ and sworn that they would emerge from this united no matter what. Hux supposes this confirms exactly how his loyalties lie.

“I’ll find you,” Ben says hurriedly. “I’ll come find you when I’m done, I promise. Hux,” he pleads, taking another step.

Hux matches it in kind, shrinking back. He will not give Ben the pleasure of seeing the break in his composure, how keenly he resents being thrown away like so much biowaste. Hux forces his body back into the familiar comfort of parade rest, his chin high, his expression trained with all the cruel impassivity he can muster. “As you command, my lord,” he says sharply, dropping a bow and spinning on his heel to march back to the house.

He half-expects Ben to stop him; to seize him with the Force and trap him there, to apologise, to change his mind. He doesn’t. Hux reaches the house unhindered, and moments later the _Kilonova_ soars off into the bright blue sky.

Réillata finds Hux alone in his room with everything in ruins. For all that he used to sneer at his childish outbursts on the _Finalizer_ , the scene around Hux could have even put Kylo Ren to shame. She sits next to him on the bed and surveys the wreckage in silence; Hux can’t bear to look her way and read the pity in her eyes. “Darling,” she says, in time.

Hux’s stomach rolls. “Don’t.”

“He said – ”

“I heard what he said,” Hux snaps. “I _hate_ them,” he snarls, mashing the crux of his palm against the brand-mark on his chest. “Hypocrites and liars and children – ”

“Armitage,” she says quietly, chidingly.

He knows full-well who he sounds like. He pulls in a shuddering breath, scrubs a hand roughly through his still-growing hair. “Tell me what to do.”

“No,” she replies, not unkindly. “I won’t give you anyone to blame for what happens next. But if you want my opinion – ” He throws her a pointed look. “Let it die,” she quietly says. “Let it stay dead. And ignore everyone who thinks less of you for it.”

Clad in his own civilian dress, Hux takes the bottle of brandy out onto the terrace to think. He wonders briefly if Ben will recalculate, but he knows full-well the notion is absurd. Hux’s carefully-crafted control over him was devoid of sentiment from either party, driven by power and their mutual joy in death. And without Ben as his ally, without Ben and his potential to return to the dark, Hux cannot think of any advantage he has left. Even Réillata has abandoned the cause.

He can’t plot his way out of this. His only hope would be to ingratiate himself to Leia Organa, to convince her of his loyalty and then undermine her from within. In that moment such a plan feels too huge, too distant, too bleak an achievement to be truly feasible. It feels far too much like an admission of defeat. How times change; before Starkiller, Hux could barely remember the sensation of failure.

It makes him think of Solaku’s final words to him on Lothal: _your father would be ashamed_. It had amused him at the time that Solaku thought Hux represented anything but shame to his father already. Even his choice to take his father’s name had been an act of defiance; Brendol had attempted to have his mother arrested for profanity when she first arrived on his doorstep and claimed the child to be his.

When Hux was barely a cadet out of the Academy, his father had invited him here in ostensible celebration and then sneered at every one of Hux’s accomplishments. He’d graduated with near-perfect marks five years ahead of his peers, and yet to his father it meant nothing. In time, Hux knew why; he knew that he could never be more than the flesh-and-blood personification of his inability to sire a legitimate son, his inability to control his lust for a good-for-nothing kitchen maid. He just wishes this downturn in his fortunes didn’t feel like the final expression of his father’s failure.

The night is too long and too dark. Hux hasn’t slept alone for weeks, hasn’t slept planetside for even longer. He’s awake long before the sun, too cold in the vast, pillowy bed. He lies in the dark and wonders if Ben has reached his mystery destination, if the scavenger girl is there to meet him, if she’s been waiting for him all this time. The more time that passes since his departure, the more utterly foolish it seems that Hux ever thought Ben Solo would throw away all this for him. He hadn’t even been much of a devotee of the Order even when it had been at the height of its majesty. He’d cast away the title of Supreme Leader as if it were nothing at all.

Hux drags himself out of bed when dawn breaks, eats alone on the terrace and watches from afar as the early-morning birds circle above the water’s surface in search of the first catch. Last night he had assumed that he’d be kept here in isolation with Réillata, but in the cold light of day he doubts that Organa will let him off so lightly, and certainly not close enough to her new Commonwealth to serve as a potential for anarchy.

Sure enough, the sun has barely peeked above the mountains when a shuttle arrives from Theed, a stately, smooth silver befitting a senator or a princess. Réillata has risen by the time the craft sets down on the landing-strip, dressed in finery and waiting eagerly to receive Organa. “Your highness,” she says, dropping to a curtsey as Organa draws near, flanked by an armed guard of scowling men. “It’s an honour to receive you. Needless to say, all of this is rightfully yours.”

From his position a pace behind her shoulder, Hux cannot see the expression on Réillata’s face; her tone seems to his ears sincere enough. Organa looks surprised, pleased, and absolutely unconvinced. “Your thoughtfulness does you credit,” she replies, her eyes passing over to Hux behind her. “But it’s your brother I’ve come to speak with.”

“Of course,” Réillata says, bowing her head and extending her arm towards the house. “Please. I have arranged for caf to be served on the terrace.”

Hux has always preferred tea to caf, but even he can tell that Réillata has spared no expense in acquiring this particular blend. It’s paired with a platter of delicately carved fruit, sending fresh, rich scents up into the air as he and Organa sit either side of the little table and take in the view. Hux stirs his cup absently and waits with patience for Organa to break the silence, at least in part because he has no idea what information she does and doesn’t have.

“I know what you’re doing,” Organa says in time, her voice absolutely calm. “And you won’t win. Not this time. Not ever.”

Hux’s mouth twists into a smile. “You flatter me, your highness,” he says smoothly, taking a sip of his caf. “I have no schemes in mind.”

Organa’s lip curls. “I met your father,” she continues. “I thought he was the worst sort of man.”

Hux’s smile falters for half a heartbeat. “I’m not my father,” he replies.

“Really?” Organa says, flat with disbelief. “To me you’re not unlike. You see no value in life because your life was never valued. You seek control because you know it grants you safety.” She looks back out towards the water. “Ben is different.”

Hux bites the inside of his cheek and swallows back his retort. Ben Solo threw away a life of immense shelter and privilege to kill innocents the galaxy over. Surely they both know he is no saint. Organa smiles as though reading his mind; perhaps she is. It’s her side of the family from which Ben gets his power, after all.

“You want to know what the real difference is?” she says, stirring her cup of caf idly with a spoon before she takes a sip. “He chose to stop. You never did.” She sets down her cup, her hands folding neatly in her lap. “My son is kind,” she says. “He is remorseful. And you don’t care about him one bit, save for how he can help you achieve your own ends. He’s in a very precarious position, and I won’t lose him again. Certainly not to you.”

Hux takes in a deep, steady breath. “Then what do you intend?”

“I’ve found a task for you,” she replies easily. “I think you might actually enjoy it.”

Hux grits his teeth. “And if I refuse?”

Organa smiles humourlessly. “You’re an imaginative man,” she replies. “I know what you value, and I know how to destroy it.”

He’d heard it said by Snoke many times before that Kylo Ren had too much of his father in him; in the distant past, Hux had no idea who his father even was. Now, he suspects that Snoke might have misinterpreted Ben’s birthright altogether. “I’m surprised you let me live,” he answers, in time.

“I’ve seen enough death,” she replies as she stands. “And besides,” she continues with a wry smile, a hard glint in her eye as she looks down on him in more ways than one. “I figured living with the knowledge that you were the cause of the Order’s downfall was punishment enough.”

It comes as no small surprise when Torbin is the one who comes to collect him. They step out from an unfamiliar ship and sign their greeting across the landing strip, hurrying towards Hux where he waits with a handful of his possessions in a little rucksack. A freezing wind has come in from the east, tugging at Hux’s clothes with icy blasts, and Hux doesn’t recognise them completely until they’re pulling him into a hug and practically bouncing with joy.

“Glad to see you’re alive,” Hux says flatly once Torbin pulls back.

_You look –_

“Dreadful, yes, I know,” Hux interrupts, hunching his shoulders. “Can we do this elsewhere?”

She’s a little shuttle, barely bigger than the room it takes to fit her engine and the cockpit with its two pilot seats. She’s hyperspace-capable, but they can’t be venturing far; that, Hux thinks with an odd lurch of worry, or Organa hadn’t been truthful in confessing her intent to spare him.

Torbin flicks through the pre-flight checks and guides her up into the air, only turning back to Hux once they are safely on course. They look Hux over slowly, lingering for a moment on his chest. Hux resists the urge to press his palm to the brand. _What happened?_

“Some trigger-happy troopers had their way with me,” Hux says vaguely. “I’m sure your new General would say it’s less than I deserve. You are well?”

Torbin nods. _I am happy_ , they sign. _I am safe_.

Hux stares out of the cockpit viewport into the gentle blur of hyperspace. He wonders not for the first time what would have happened if Ben had let him be, back on the planet where the Resistance had held him captive; he still doesn’t know its name. He doubts now that Organa would have had him executed. He would never have met Wek, would never have been stripped of his dignity and beaten for sport in that grubby little room. He would never have known the soft way Ben’s brow draws tight as he concentrates, the distant glow in his eyes in the moment before he comes.

It takes an hour or so before they emerge from hyperspace. Hux frowns, trying to patch together their location from what he can see out of the viewport and what he can read on the instruments; neither is especially helpful. In time a miserable smudge on the horizon begins to grow, revealing itself to be a planet coloured an uninspiring grey, much of its surface hidden through thick rainclouds. Hux frowns, watching as Torbin guides the shuttle down towards a cluster of lights near its northern pole. It reminds him vaguely of –

Kamino, he realises with a rush. On the _Actuator_ he never got this close.

Torbin sets them down on a pad at the outskirts of a huge, sprawling city, half-shrouded by the cloud and soaked with driving rain. No one comes out to greet them; Torbin points to a doorway across the landing strip, and though it’s barely twenty yards away by the time they duck inside they are both soaked through. The hallway beyond is seemingly endless, a bright, clinical white that makes Hux’s head ache, but the air is at least warm against his skin. Torbin touches him briefly on the arm. _Goodbye, friend_ , they sign, gesturing down the hall. _You are safe now too_.

He sees a party of the long-necked locals gracefully making their way towards them down the corridor, and an odd twist of nervousness lodges in his gut. “I don’t know about that,” Hux says distantly.

Torbin smiles. _May the Force be with you_ , they sign, and then disappear back out into the rain.

Hux pulls in a steadying breath and turns to meet the party. The little group of Kaminoans draws near; the one in front steps forward, dressed in rich fabrics with a high collar around their slender neck. “Greetings,” they say, bowing their head. “I am Ya So. We are honoured to welcome you to Tipoca. Come. There is much work to be done.”

They show him to his quarters on a lower deck of the city, a huge oval viewport overlooking the raging ocean beyond. The room is bare, almost as bare as Hux’s billet on the _Actuator_ had been, with everything made in that hideous white durasteel which glows fiercely under the lights. He has a desk, a small sitting area, and a kitchenette, arranged around the larger, lower viewport. A bed is set on a mezzanine beside another viewport, looking out towards the city centre rather than the bleakness beyond. It is perfectly pleasant and generously comfortable, and yet it feels immediately like a jail cell.

Standing beside the bed, Hux stares out of the viewport to the city beyond. Although the room is spotless and elegantly designed, Hux can see from here that the city has been ravaged by some huge battle, many of the squat buildings to their left torn open and blackened by blaster bolts. Little circular craft dive occasionally under the surface of the water, hauling up torn metal and other wreckage from the ocean below.

“Do you wish to tour the facility?” Ya So asks in their gentle, loping tone. “You can see much of it from here. The council chamber is to the south, and then the commercial district sits beside.” They gesture with their long hand from one structure to another, moving from right to left. “That is where our cloning facilities used to lie,” they add sadly, pointing at the gnarled lump of wreckage on the leftmost side. “We have recovered some of our knowledge, but not all. Many of our best technicians were lost in the Great Purge.”

Understanding begins to dawn in Hux’s mind, as unpleasant and unavoidable as toothache. He almost wants to applaud Organa for her sense of irony. Hux’s greatest achievement was the creation of Starkiller Base, the machine he spent a decade of his life refining to perfection, honing until its capacity to kill was greater than any force the galaxy has ever known. Greater than the Death Star, greater than Vader, greater than Kylo Ren.

She said she had a task for him, and Hux now thinks he knows what she intends. All of his skill, all of his knowledge channelled not to build technology to end life but to create it – perhaps even in perpetuity. It’s a truly inspired form of vengeance.

Days and nights pass strangely in Tipoca. The city is suspended perpetually in stormy clouds, and it is often impossible to know whether or not the distant sun is in the sky behind the rain. Hux is left to wander the city freely, which tells him all he needs to know about how much they perceive him as a threat. He spends a good galactic standard week just following the long, eerie corridors in unending loops, caring little where they take him, grateful momentarily for having more room to spread his legs in this new cage.

He finds their prototype cloning facilities soon after, watching from a distant balcony as they attempt to recreate technology only half-preserved by memory. They aren’t totally failing; they’ve graduated from single-celled organisms at least, though apparently that in itself had taken them almost thirty years. For all that Kamino was renowned for its cloning facilities, a surprisingly small part of the planet was actually devoted to the industry. Many Kaminoans still dwell deep beneath the ocean’s surface, their lives barely amphibious at all. It explains how the Emperor was able to wipe their expertise off the map by dispatching a single battalion, and how the knowledge of this event had been lost to time for everyone except those who saw it.

Hux is well-aware that he could refuse to help. He could sit in his beautiful quarters and watch the ocean claw at the surface of Tipoca, relentless in its endless battle to drag the buildings below the waves. He could wander around in circles until he knows every inch of the city’s shining surface. But truthfully, he cannot bear the boredom. There’s nothing else for him to do. He’s been given nothing to read, nothing to do, no access to the HoloNet. The Tipocans give him a wide berth, clearly instructed to ignore him unless he asks about his predestined purpose.

Worse, infinitely worse than the boredom is the simmering pit of feeling festering deep in Hux’s breast. The past few months haven’t given him time to pause; he’d gone from Crait, to Naboo, to Jedha, to Cantonica in a matter of weeks. Now, left with nothing but the blank canvas of the city and his own mind, the toll of it is beginning to creep in. He should be furious with Ben. It had been easy enough to loathe him before, back when he had torn through Hux’s mind like a battlefield and ripped all power and knowledge from his memory without a shred of consent; and for a time, Hux does lie awake all hours of the day seething at the sharpness of his betrayal, that ulcer-like ache of having been used and disposed of time and time again.

But there’s something lurking underneath it that stops him wrestling it all into rage. At first he can’t parse it, can’t understand why he isn’t able to cleave it from his system and recover as he always has before. It’s hardly the first time he’s been used as a means to someone else’s ends. Back on Naboo, Organa had even reiterated that his link to Ben was just the same.

It’s a tidy little lie, beneficial in the moment to the both of them. The gnarled sentiment inside Hux’s chest isn’t just rage, or frustration, or betrayal. When he thinks of Ben he thinks of the crinkles beside his eyes when he smiles, the sensation of Ben’s hair against his skin, the clean raw smell of the _Kilonova_ ’s cockpit at the moment they jump into hyperspace. Somewhere in the middle of his scheming, Ben Solo became more than an asset for him to control, a tool in his machinations for power.

The knowledge settles like a lump of lead in Hux’s gut, sat alone one day-or-night in the middle of his bed. He rests his chin on his knees and stares at the tempest beyond and recognises the growing dread. He has allowed himself to do the unthinkable: he has allowed himself to care.

Hux marches to the technicians’ bay with short, sharp steps, his mind wrestled a careful blank. Inside are two Tipocans, carefully examining the cadaver of some native amphibian they are failing to clone en masse. The taller of the two shakes her head excitedly as she spots him enter; Jae Lu, their head embryologist. “Armitage Hux,” she says with obvious pleasure, gesturing for him to come near. “So glad that you could join us.”

Hux approaches the bench. The amphibian was in the penultimate stage of its life cycle, a stunted form just about capable of transitioning independently from land to water. “It lasted sixty-four days in total,” the other Tipocan says proudly, their voice pitched towards the deeper tone of the three masculine genders. Hux isn’t certain of Zn Re’s precise specialisation, but he’s seen him frequently aiding Jae Lu in her work.

“What seems to be your restricting factor?” Hux asks.

“Temperature fluctuation at the embryonic phase,” Jae Lu explains, leading him over to a wall of sleeping specimens in incubation tanks, all in the fourth cycle. They float eerily in a translucent liquid, rippling with odd patterns as they twitch and shift in their sleep. “The xhemni metahost is capable of making minute adjustments to its biome during incubation between the final two cycles. Our instruments are failing to replicate these conditions.”

Hux looks between the cases; they each have little readouts, programmed in the local language that Hux is still struggling to grasp. “How minute?”

“Around ten thousand picogrades,” Zn Re says.

Hux nods. Despite his utter lack of understanding of their biological methods, the technology behind Starkiller had required even more precise environmental managements; pressure, temperature, and atmospheric density, to name but a few. The tetralisk converger at the centre of the barometric machine had been required to hold a constant of point zero three degrees, where even the smallest shift could cause an enormous rupture in its mechanics. This, Hux thinks, is a problem he may be able to resolve.

“I have some experience with atmospheric manipulation,” Hux replies, looking up at Jae Lu. “If you would allow me to look at your designs, I may be able to suggest refinements.”

Jae Lu’s head bobs with delight. “It would be our pleasure,” she happily replies.

Hux adjusts himself to the rhythm of the planet’s days, if only to ensure that he has time to speak with Jae Lu about their work. The few designs they have are on decades-old sheets of flimsi, copied poorly from originals held in the Jedi archives. It takes some time to even decipher which of the plans are of the same technology; it is Hux who notices a constant moniker in the corner of some, the initials R.C.A. accompanying any blueprints related to the incubation of human gametes.

It’s also easy enough to see the flaw in their prototypes, or at least it is to Hux’s trained eye. They have misinterpreted an engineer’s notation on the blueprint and attempted to use the wrong material in the circuitry. “The metal casings you’re using aren’t capable of withstanding the rapid changes in temperature,” Hux explains, pointing on one such diagram of the mainboard housed at the heart of the incubator. “That’s why you’re seeing such imprecise responses in the thermal equipment. You would be better off using boron nitride, or perhaps quartz if you can get it.”

“What about kyber?” Zn Re asks. Hux manages to keep his composure, even as his mind recalls the beautiful glittering fields on Jedha, the jagged broken caves of Ilum.

“Kyber is the best material for energy refinement,” he acknowledges. “But I suspect a less rare material would suffice for your temperature management.”

Jae Lu blinks her big eyes in agreement. “We have arrangements with the nitrogen refinery on Hypori,” she says. Hux looks back down at the diagram, tracing over the little R.C.A. in the corner. “We have also made good progress on human liver growth since your advice about replicating anisotropic polarization,” she continues, leading him over to a little transparisteel box with their latest iteration nestled inside. “The phospholipids are far more sensitive to their refractive indexes than we had previously anticipated.”

“Wonderful,” Hux says absently, looking down at the gently-pulsing test organ in the pretence of inspecting the little display. It’s strange, experiencing the little thrill of joy and pride at a job well-handled in such a different context. The galvanic interface he’d created in his first prototype of Starkiller had been a tiny thing, with the smallest shard of kyber in its heart; it had been almost as delicate a mechanism as this liver. Operating on the microscopic for him had always come before the macroscopic. The prototype had been on his desk on Ilum, and died with the rest of the planet. Hux had always intended to make another.

“General Organa will be most pleased to hear of our successes,” she says, ignorant of his drifting attention, and Hux grants her a thin smile. He suspects this is Organa’s true priority in re-establishing connections with the Kaminoans; not necessarily for whole-being replication, but for the considerable advantages in being able to grow replacement tissue. The Order had risen to prominence partly because of its strategy of arriving in remote systems and offering its considerable medical expertise in exchange for troops and weapons. The Republic had been more interested in establishing a stable democracy than providing immediate necessities, and the Order capitalised fully on that judgement. He wonders what state those systems are in now. He can’t imagine the Order spent much time there once they had stripped out the resources they required.

Now, it seems Organa has learnt the lesson; now it seems she is interested in ensuring they have the technology for sustaining life in their hands, and not another’s. It’s an intelligent move, and one which Hux suspects he’d also half-devised when he chose to seek out Kamino on the _Actuator_ himself all those months before. He entirely sees the irony in how it has come to pass.

Hux remembers keenly the moment he first had success with his little prototype, the burst of furious energy that confirmed he’d finally replicated the kyber crystal right. He had reported hurriedly to Snoke, and then hunted down a bottle of brandy and his co-technician to celebrate. Later, he had received a transmission from Réillata, her words scorchingly sarcastic but her eyes full of pride.

There’s no such reception here. Hux takes his leave of Jae Lu and walks back to his quarters through the echoing corridors in silence, his mind carefully turned to the next hypothesis, the next model, the next plan.

It had taken them weeks to track down Wattin. Weeks of wandering around dismal backwater ports, asking the same questions of the locals in Basic or, occasionally, Ben’s broken Huttese. Before, Hux suspects he would have tied them up and dragged it from their minds without a thought; but something seems to stay his hand, now. He barely uses his powers more than he needs to, where before he had wielded them much as he had wielded his saber, ever-present and on a whim.

The night before they found Wattin, they stayed in a little cottage on the outskirts of Talloran, too weary to do much more than eat and fall into the little bed when they were finished. Ben had rested his head on Hux’s stomach and talked about his father, about a Nautolan who had occasionally helped them smuggle intel out of Hutt Space. The sheer fact he had the capacity to talk about the man he murdered in cold blood with remorse and guilt and love had made Hux’s head spin. He had always believed that Kylo Ren was a hindrance and a brat, but in that moment Ben Solo had seemed both wise beyond his years and ludicrously young.

Hux thinks he first had it then, sat against the headboard and combing his fingers idly through Ben’s hair as he talked. That little twisting ache inside his chest, that burst of feeling. There’s no place for it here in Tipoca, no reason for it to sit like a lodestone in the pit of his stomach, present with every breath; but there’s no means of escaping it either.

Alone and trapped in a prison of his own making, Hux endures.

They make good progress with the incubation matrices. Hux’s knowledge of biogenetics is still fairly poor, but his expertise in general mechanics has already doubled the earlier xhemni life cycles in the matter of a month, though they have yet to have a single specimen survive to the final cycle. Jae Lu has granted him greater access to their documents, sharing plans for developing their cerebral cloning programme. They are struggling to refine the independence the clone troops had been so famous for, their genetic ability to adapt and improvise but still ultimately operate within their commander’s control. The typical human brain sees both functions provided by the frontal lobe, but Hux has begun to wonder whether subtler manipulation had been performed at the embryonic stage to change its structure.

Regardless, it’s not his area. He’s been asked to fine-tune the equipment to house their neural cell morphogenesis programme, hoping to allow a greater flux in the concentration of retinoic acid the system can detect and restrict. This R.C.A. had evidently been tasked to do something similar; their initials are on most of the blueprints Hux looks over in the old facility’s morphology equipment. To Hux’s surprise, the initials eventually emerge as the name of the director rather than the engineer. His signature appears on a requisition order not dissimilar to the ones Hux had often completed in a different life: Raskin Connor Ancell.

It stirs some vague memory, something from back when he’d spent far too much time as a young cadet studying the history of the Empire to measure out its failings. That is, after all, the power of information; and for all that Maro used to prattle on about the scarcity of kyber, it is a resource to Hux which is far more precious. He suspects the Emperor had felt likewise, given how violently he had moved to scour the Kaminoans’ technology from existence. The absolute disaster that befell them on Scarif must have been formative in that regard. Still, it’s just a name from decades ago; alone it tells him nothing. With no direct access to libraries or the HoloNet, he is forced to seek out Jae Lu and ask if it has greater meaning to her, or perhaps gain her permission to carry on his inquiries.

When he enters the technicians’ lab, he finds himself faced with the fuzzy blue form of General Organa on the holoprojector. Hux instantly drops to one knee, half out of habit and half out of spite. “Apologies for the interruption,” Hux says, bowing his head. “I didn’t know you were otherwise engaged.”

“Not at all,” Jae Lu warmly says. “We were just discussing your work.”

“Wonderful,” Hux says thinly, looking up at Organa and seeing nothing but vague amusement on her face. In that moment, it feels worse than the biennial performance reviews his father used to force on him when he was still a cadet. “Did you have any questions for me, your highness?”

 _“Your colleagues seem to have it all in hand,”_ she replies with a wry smile. _“Do you have any questions for me?”_

Hux’s stomach lurches. There’s only one thing he would ask of her, and he’s still far too prideful to speak it aloud. “None that come to mind, ma’am.”

Organa turns her attention back to Jae Lu. _“We’ll speak soon,”_ she says. _“May the Force be with you both.”_

The projector flickers out. Hux is left on his knees, staring blankly at the empty air as his heart thunders harshly in his chest. “Are you quite well?” Jae Lu asks; when Hux looks up, her eyes are wide with what seems like genuine concern. She’s always been remarkably perceptive when it comes to judging his mood.

“Of course,” Hux replies, standing swiftly and smoothing down his hair. By the time he has explained his inquiry to Jae Lu, his hands are steady and his pulse has calmed, and he has dutifully wiped away all thought of Ben.

It becomes not uncommon for him and Jae Lu to work in his quarters. She’s a fan of the same Ryndellian brandy as he is, but thankfully Hux isn’t required to cater much else; the Kaminoans are extremely fond of raw fish, which always makes Hux’s stomach turn. She has her own rooms with her own family unit, two partners of different genders and six younglings under their care, and Hux’s living-space becomes something of a sanctuary when she wishes to continue working outside of the stuffy technicians’ bay or the rowdiness of her own home.

Not long after they have succeeded in stabilising the xhemni incubation biomes, Jae Lu arrives at his door with an armful of flimsi, practically bouncing with enthusiasm. “I found another reference to your mysterious benefactor,” she says, her usually-loping voice oddly syncopated with her excitement. Hux steps aside to let her in, following her to the large desk that dominates the area beside the lower viewport. “He approved some weapon designs during the early Imperial era.”

She points down at the signature with one pale finger; sure enough, Hux reads the name _Raskin Connor Ancell_. The diagram is for some kind of blaster, incorporating a mechanism that allows the weapon to switch between plasma bolts and toxic darts. “Do you still manufacture weapons?”

“Not like this,” Jae Lu replies. “We specialise in ion cannons now.” That explains how they are able to afford such enormous experimentation facilities, at least; there’s barely a ship in the galaxy without an ion weapon of some design. “Does this answer your question?”

Hux didn’t really have a question in mind; he’d just known he’d seen the name somewhere else before, had wanted to chase down that niggling itch of recognition. “Thank you,” he says by way of reply, and crosses the room to fetch the brandy from the kitchenette. “Tell me more about your progress with the synthesised esterases.”

Their latest xhemni specimen survives in its penultimate cycle unaided for a hundred days, and Jae Lu begins to regularly include him on her communications with Organa. She wears an odd mix of the practical general’s gear that he’s used to seeing her in and the more statesmanlike robes of Republican times. She seems tired, but there’s a fierceness in her resolve that Hux knows and recognises as the thrill of victory, of success. He’s seen a similar look in Ben’s eyes before.

 _“I have a message from your sister,”_ Organa says at the end of one such meeting, and Hux perks up in obvious interest. He knows that Réillata is making herself predictably indispensible to the new regime; she’s helping to smooth relations with some of the old Imperial elite, whom themselves had been the nouveau riche barely thirty years before. Most of them have long memories and short tempers, but even more are wise enough to see which way the wind is blowing. _“She told me to say that she’s well, and that your father would be ashamed of her,”_ Organa says dryly. _“I think it was intended as a compliment.”_

Hux struggles to stifle a grin. “Please convey something similar in return, ma’am,” he replies.

On one strange morning not long after he speaks to Organa, Hux finds the technicians’ bay unusually empty. Hux looks furtively around the little lab, feeling somewhat like a youngling who’s been left unsupervised. His attention jumps instantly to the one cabinet of equipment which he hasn’t yet been given scope to use, housing a small sample of the prototype weapons developed outside of Tipoca City. He isn’t certain his permissions will extend to them until he tries the lock on the door and finds it opens, revealing a few racks of blasters and model ion cannons. 

Before he has the chance to take one out and inspect it closer, Zn Re enters silently enough to make Hux jump on spotting him. Feeling slightly like he’s been caught misbehaving, Hux is careful to close the cabinet door casually as Zn Re walks over. “You approve of the prototypes?” Zn Re asks, seemingly oblivious to Hux’s discomfort; Hux nods, clearing his throat and fighting back the guilty urge to blush. Zn Re looks pleased. “We were surprised at your request to work in our cloning subdivision,” he continues. “Your colleagues have always been more interested in our weapons manufacturing.”

This gives Hux pause. “My colleagues?”

Zn Re gives him a curious look. “You are the Armitage Hux of Starkiller Base, are you not?”

Hux blinks. “I – yes,” he says slowly, even as his mind begins to race. “Have we communicated before?”

“Not directly,” Zn Re admits, closing the cabinet door and loping over to the nearest datapad to begin his inspection of the xhemni. “But we have worked to many of your specifications in the past.” He looks up. “I found your redistribution of the energy couplings for ventral cannons most ingenious.”

“Those plans were classified,” he says, his surprise emerging more harshly than he’d intended.

Zn Re dips his head. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to offend,” he replies. “Chandler Matterweaver provided us with whatever we needed to meet his requirements.”

Ion cannons, Hux realises. Of course. His heart is hammering inside his chest. “There’s no offence,” he insists, careful to keep his tone light and his pace nonchalant as he strolls over to the incubation matrices. “Are you still in contact with Matterweaver?”

Zn Re appears unbothered by the question. “It’s possible,” he admits, and Hux feels a little thrill of hope. “I shall have to inquire.”

Sat alone in his empty quarters drinking a foul cup of caf, Hux thinks of a story told to him long ago. Gossip among academy cadets was rife with nonsense, and more often than not Hux was excluded from the hearsay unless it could be used to humiliate him; but this story had come from one of the elders, the frail-looking man responsible for protecting what little knowledge the Order could salvage. The man had treated this knowledge with veneration akin to the worst kind of superstition, but Hux has tolerated the short-sightedness because of his ability to use the library as a refuge. He learnt the man liked a certain sort of sweetcake, and over time Hux endeared himself to him by showing up sporadically with a little box of them stolen from the mess.

The archives were kept in a small, dusty, tumbledown room along a corridor few of Hux’s peers ever bothered to walk down. Here, Hux had pored over every ancient manuscript he could find, desperate for tactics, for strategies, for the kinds of understanding that might elevate him from the others. Knowing of his aptitude for engineering, the archivist had taken him to one side and shown him what remains of the plans for the Death Star. He told him of how the databanks on Scarif were destroyed by terrorists, how this copy had only come into their hands via the Republican records on Hosnian Prime. He’d shown Hux the flaw fundamental in the mechanism and revealed the greatest secret of all: that it was no accident. That its creator had pitifully sabotaged his own creation.

It comes back to him now in his quarters on rainswept Kamino, because Hux recalls looking down at the corner of the designs to discover the man responsible for this villainy. The engineer’s name had been scratched away, rightfully condemned to anonymity for his treachery, but beside it was the supervising officer: Raskin Ancell. The archivist had been clueless as to who the man truly was; he wasn’t on the listings of any roster that survived from the time. It seems strange that Hux should find himself wondering the same question some two decades later. He’s certain that Ben would dreamily call it destiny.

Little news reaches him from Naboo. Organa has no interest in illuminating current events, and it’s weeks before he’s trusted to converse even with Réillata. He hears that they have held a memorial for those killed in the war, that the only surviving general of the Order has surrendered, that two sessions of the new Commonwealth Council have been held with dignitaries from over forty systems. The victory should tear at him, should stoke his anger further, but it doesn’t. It just feels hollow.

When he and Réillata are allowed to speak, her conversation is carefully mundane. He supposes her loyalty is also under question, but he does wish she could find some way to let him know more than she is safe and she is being helpful. He isn’t sure how much of his own work is classified; he isn’t entirely sure anyone but Organa even knows where he is.

 _“I spoke with an old friend of yours today,”_ Réillata says. Hux tries to contain the lurch of hope, looking up at her with curiosity. _“Carth Matterweaver,”_ she continues, and Hux puts down his cup of caf. _“He’s trying to persuade Organa that her Commonwealth needs a standing army.”_

“I don’t envy him that objective,” he murmurs, almost to himself. He’d forgotten all about his inquiry to Zn Re; he’s been so focused on their work here it totally slipped his mind. “How was he?”

_“Oily as ever. He bent over backwards to offer his condolences.”_

Hux snorts. “Maybe we should stage a funeral,” he says thoughtfully, passing a hand over his brow. “I could appear unannounced halfway through the ceremony and claim it to be a Skywalker miracle.”

 _“More like a Skywalker curse,”_ Réillata dryly replies. _“I should go,”_ she adds, and for a moment she looks worryingly pensive. _“But – Armitage. Are – are you well?”_

“I do wish people would stop asking me that,” Hux mutters. “You all know full well this is not where I wish to be.”

Hux can’t parse the expression on her face; he has a horrible feeling it might be pity. _“I’m only asking,”_ she replies quietly. _“Be safe,”_ she adds, and then with a mischievous look she begins, _“May the Force – ”_

“Fuck off,” Hux says flatly, and terminates the line just in time to hide his smile.

The hundred-day benchmark becomes an easy milestone for the xhemni, though they still have no success in getting any of the embryos to survive the final transition. Hux is temporarily reassigned to help Jae Lu with the human programmes. Their renal system syntheses are going well, and they’d already developed good models for cardiac replication before Hux arrived; the real current difficulty is in generating reliable nerve tissue. They would very much like to be able to offer replacement services that would outmatch the mechno-limb and synthskin variants produced by cybernetics companies in the Core, but their nervous systems just aren’t providing the comparable dexterity and effortlessness of their mechanical counterparts.

Hux is tasked with improving the sensitivity of Jae Lu’s equipment to different cholinergic agents, but his lack of understanding of neuroscience is making it increasingly difficult for him to make any progress. For all that he genuinely enjoys the process of adapting and improving his projects, his total absence of expertise is making him feel much like he’s a toddler running around with his teacher’s toolkit. Zn Re finds him brooding in the little laboratory, sat alone and scowling into the middle-distance as he watches Jae Lu on the level below observing the xhemnis’ attempt to walk. He wonders if Zn Re has caught something of his annoyance; he bobs his head nervously when he walks in the room, his big eyes blinking rapidly as he approaches.

“Apologies,” he begins, which does little to improve Hux’s temper. “I must have been mistaken about Chandler Matterweaver. There are no records of us dealing with a man by that name.” Hux frowns. It’s unlike Zn Re to make such an obvious mistake, and his immediate suspicion is that the Tipocan is lying to him; his next is foul play on whomever keeps their records. “But I did learn that our contact with the First Order was Raskin Ancell,” he adds, and Hux’s heart lurches in his chest.

Hux pulls in a steady breath, tries not to let his surprise show. “Thank you,” he says, and Zn Re scuttles away to rejoin Jae Lu on the floor below.

Hux’s mind is whirling with this new knowledge, trying furiously to make sense of it. Either this Ancell has survived the fall of the Empire and lived well into his eighties, or it is an adopted moniker chosen by someone with a knowledge of Imperial history as rare as Hux’s. Perhaps a personal connection; perhaps a relative of the original Ancell. It can’t be one of the generals, given that the messages date to after most of them had been murdered.

Except Davin Maro, of course, but even as it comes to mind Hux dismisses the thought. Maro was a fan of the empire, but he’s too stupid for this. If Hux hadn’t been personally witness to the destruction of the Order’s commanding officers then he might imagine a wider conspiracy, but as far as he knows Maro is the only ranking officer not dead or imprisoned. It brings him no small discomfort to imagine Maro and Matterweaver languishing together in some luxurious apartment suite in Theed, bending over backwards to aid Organa and skimming off whatever they can manage until they earn their own freedom.

Understanding dawns, sharp and electric and sudden. Maro’s a fool, but Carth Matterweaver likely has the knowledge and the motive. He’s been involved with the Order’s logistics since its foundations, given that he’d studied under Krennic himself –

Hux swears loudly to the empty room.

In the relative privacy of his quarters, Hux wonders how long this has been Matterweaver’s game. How long he has feigned deference to the Order while amassing the technology to build his own army. The communication Zn Re unearthed dated back long before Crait, before even Starkiller, with absolutely no mention of Snoke’s involvement. It wouldn’t surprise him if this had been how Matterweaver and Maro had always planned to act, to wait until the Order had established a sufficient foothold in the galaxy’s affairs before slowly shifting the balance of control in their favour.

Hux has a fleeting advantage, but he cannot decide how best to use it. He could contact Organa and attempt to use the intelligence to barter his freedom, but he cannot believe she’d grant him clemency. He could keep the secret, wait with Maro and Matterweaver until the cloning programme has developed to sufficient strength; he could even follow in the footsteps of the Death Star’s nameless engineer and install some hidden line in the code, write it into the clones’ very being for Hux to be their master above all others. Neither is appealing. One involves putting himself at the mercy of a woman whom he’s always despised, and the other involves being complicit with two men whom Hux suspects would rather he were dead.

There boils down his choice, then: does he trust Carth Matterweaver or Leia Organa more? Organa is less likely to betray him, but her cause makes it impossible for her to value Hux’s freedom. Matterweaver always works in pursuit of his own end, which makes him fickle but predictable. Ben would never forgive him if he chose against Organa, but Ben’s already thrown him aside, run off to play at being a Jedi with some scavenger girl he hardly knows.

Hux knows which path his father would take. Brendol only chose not to further his own goals when choosing to further the Order’s instead, and he tried as frequently as possible to make sure the two aligned. But nothing lives on of Brendol Hux – except his two children, both of whom were glad to see him die. Hux has lived in the shadow of his father’s feeble reputation his entire life, up to and including the success he forged within the Order, motivated as much by spite as the desire to meet his father eye to eye. Hux remembers keenly the way his younger self had absorbed the tenets of their Order, determined to rise above it all and yet desperate to belong. Brendol hadn’t even wanted him to enter the academy.

Since fleeing from Ben back on Tatooine, it feels as though Hux has heard from the galaxy a thousand times over that the Order is dead and that no one save him mourns its passing. At the time the notion had filled Hux with horror, a kind of queasy, all-consuming terror that he’s rarely felt before; but now it feels like freedom, vast, sprawling, unending opportunity. In that moment, he finds that he has absolutely no desire to be another Brendol Hux, embittered by defeat and scrabbling for control at the ragged edges of the galaxy.

 _He chose to stop_ , Hux hears Organa say. _You never did_.

Hux kneels within the holoprojector’s range, his head dutifully bowed. Dread rolls in his gut as the machine makes the connection, the final remaining doubts of his decision furiously jostling for attention in his mind. He attempts to push them aside, to control his temper, to conceal his nervousness in case it should be mistaken for duplicity.

“Your highness,” he says, looking up as soon as the click-rasp of the image flickering to life.

 _“I told you to stop calling me that,”_ Organa flatly replies. In that moment, she looks so much like Ben that Hux’s heart aches.

“Apologies, ma’am,” he answers smoothly. “Is the line secure?”

 _“One moment,”_ she says, adjusting her controls. _“All right, go ahead.”_

Hux takes a moment to pull in a steadying breath. For all that Hux has spent a long while choosing his words, he’s keenly aware of their limited chance of success. “I have something to offer you,” he says. “Intelligence on a coup against the Commonwealth.”

Organa regards him in silence. _“What are you asking for return?”_

“My freedom,” Hux replies.

She frowns. _“That’s a heavy price,”_ she answers slowly. “ _And regardless of what you tell me, I can’t just grant you clemency.”_

Hux wets his lips; he’s prepared every argument he can conceive of a hundred times over. “You’ve got a thousand ex-Order officers scattered around the galaxy,” he begins. “Showing mercy – ”

 _“They didn’t fire on Hosnian Prime,”_ Organa interrupts, wholly unimpressed. _“They didn’t take five hundred billion lives.”_

Hux has no answer to this. If she expects remorse it would be fake, and he can’t change the course of history; nor would he want to, in truth. “I merely want some semblance of security,” Hux says after a momentary pause to gather his thoughts. “Some guarantee that you’re not going to torment me on a whim.”

 _“And I don’t think you deserve it,”_ she coldly replies.

Hux has one stratagem left to play, but it’s the most repulsive in his arsenal. “Alright,” he says slowly. “I offer myself for interrogation as a gesture of good faith. If you’re satisfied with the intelligence I provide, all I ask is for the freedom to trot off to die in some corner of the galaxy where you won’t ever have to think of me again.”

In the silence that follows Hux feels her stare like a white-hot brand against his skin. He resists the urge to fidget, focuses all of his attention on the push and pull of his breath, the grounding ache of the cold floor beneath his knee, the sharp clinical smell of the little laboratory. He is utterly unable to judge from her expression whether or not she’s convinced.

 _“You’re aware that I can give no reassurances but my word,”_ she says, after what seems like an age.

“Yes.”

_“And you agree to those terms?”_

Hux hesitates. “I do,” he replies.

She nods. _“I’ll consider your proposal,”_ Organa says, and terminates the line.

Three days later Hux arrives back at his quarters to find Torbin waiting for him. Fear begins to roll in the base of Hux’s gut as soon as he spots them, the knowledge growing like a thorn inside his chest that if he departs here now then he has nothing but Organa’s word that he’ll live out the week.

If she wanted him dead, she could have killed him a thousand times before now. Hux pulls in a steady breath, meets Torbin’s eye, and gestures for them to lead on.

There’s no suggestion in the vaulted halls of Theed that the palace ever belonged to the First Order. The fixtures and fittings have been stripped away, replaced by bright fabrics and antique furniture. The halls are full of chatter, peoples of all kinds dressed in the clothes of a thousand different planets as they celebrate their freedom and negotiate their prizes. It is, in short, chaotic and garish and so obviously designed to repel the clean, clinical lines of its predecessor.

Hux is guided straight through the rabble to Organa. She’s reclaimed the council chamber he’d once shared to discuss his conquest of the galaxy, the same gaudy table still squatting like an enormous glittering insect in the middle of the room; Hux keeps his gaze low and his expression neutral as Torbin guides him past the rowdy bunch of rag-tag soldiers and politicians holding council on their feet. He doesn’t need to be Force-sensitive to feel the weight of all their eyes on him as they cross the room. Torbin ushers him through the chamber and into a smaller office at one side. The scavenger girl is waiting for him, her hand at her hip inches from her saber and a thick, disapproving scowl on her face. She signs her thanks to Torbin and gestures wordlessly for Hux to sit.

Hux perches on the edge of one of the high-backed chairs facing the desk. The warm sunlight washes through the window and rests on his neck, and with the scent of the local flowers drifting through the air it makes him think back to summers he spent in purgatory here as a child, bound to his father’s every whim.

“Good,” Organa says as she enters the room, glancing between the two of them while dumping a pile of flimsi on the desk. Her desk, in her office, Hux increasingly suspects. “Are you ready?” she asks, shuffling through the flimsi. Hux says nothing, uncertain if he’s being addressed; the girl nods once. “We have three questions to ask you,” Organa continues. “Consider them a test of your intention. Then you can share what it is you think we need to know.”

At this, the scavenger girl crosses the room and kneels on the floor beside him, resting two fingers lightly at his wrist. He looks down at her with some surprise; he had fully expected to be dragged off to some awful interrogation chamber as before. Even so, the moment she begins to slip inside his mind his whole being seizes with panic, white-hot and all-consuming. It’s an overwhelming reflex, driven by an instinctive terror at the mere sensation of someone entering his mind; revulsion rolls ruthlessly through his system, rising hot bile in the back of his throat.

“Rey,” Organa says, somewhere outside of the hazy fog of his fear, and the sensation drops away like a stone.

Hux blinks hard, gasping a little as the little room swims back into focus. He’s drenched with cold sweat. Still knelt beside him, the girl almost looks embarrassed. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I did try to be gentle.”

Hux takes the offered glass of water and drains it slowly, dwelling on the sensation of the panic sliding away, the resumption of his control. He looks Organa straight in the eye and thinks: _Ben did this to me. You did this to me._

She seems entirely unfazed. “When you’re ready,” she says. Hux looks down at the scavenger girl and nods. This time, when she slips inside his mind it’s a calm, cool, subtle feeling, a sense of peacefulness and rightness. Panic is there, crowding around on the edges of his thoughts, but the girl is somehow holding it at bay, keeping him safe from descending into terror again. “What is the First Order?” Organa asks.

It’s strange, seeing and feeling the process of his thoughts observed by another. At first comes the visceral: the blood-red bolt of Starkiller, the smell of a freshly-cleaned uniform, the feeling of victory and triumph. “Dead,” Hux answers, in time. “I killed it.”

Organa regards him in silence for a moment. “Where would you go?”

Hux can’t help but imagine the galaxy as a vast, barren place, and the locations which flicker before his mind hold no appeal: Kamino, Nal Hutta, Cantonica, Boz Pity. “Anywhere,” Hux says. “Nowhere.”

She and the scavenger girl share a brief, unfathomable look. “Who is Ben Solo?” Organa asks.

Hux grits his teeth. Loss rises first, that deep bitter sense of intimacy feigned and then snatched away; anger, resentment, betrayal. “He chose you,” Hux says, his voice a little hoarse.

Wrong answer. Organa frowns, and Hux feels the girl push harder, her presence manifesting as a throbbing pressure at his temples. “Who is he to you?” the girl asks, her tone hard.

Hux thinks unwillingly of the red colour of his old saber reflected in Kylo Ren’s eyes, the little scowl Ben wears when things are going wrong. He thinks of the softness of his hair and the smell of his sweat and the peacefulness they’d shared in the bed on the _Kilonova_. He thinks of Kylo Ren cutting his way through a battlefield, death and vengeance incarnate. He thinks of Ben hacking through Hux’s mind in that awful cell, tearing Hux’s integrity, loyalty, agency to shreds.

“Weakness,” Hux croaks in reply.

The girl removes her hand. Hux takes a moment to pull in deep, steadying breaths, his heart hammering inside his chest. Hot tears are pressing at the back of his eyes, but he’d watch the Order die a thousand times again before he cried openly in front of them.

In time, Hux regains control. Assuming their silence to be assent, he clears his throat and begins. “You’re working with Carth Matterweaver,” he says, his voice now preternaturally calm. “I have evidence that he’s using an old Imperial pseudonym to stockpile cannonry and fund the Kaminoan human cloning programmes. I suspect he and Maro are contriving to build an army behind your back with the intention of staging a coup.”

The two of them share another look. “You have proof?” Organa asks slowly.

“I brought what I could,” Hux replies. “I have evidence of a Raskin Connor Ancell funding cloning and weapons development programmes on Kamino. My colleague in Tipoca named him as their contact for the First Order.”

Organa frowns. “I’ve never heard of him.”

Hux smiles humourlessly. “I’d be surprised if you had,” he admits. “It’s an old Imperial alias.”

The scavenger scowls, her gaze full of scorn. “And you just happened to know it.”

Hux shrugs. “I’m not lying,” he says coolly. “I made it my business as a young man to learn from Krennic’s failures. Apparently so did Matterweaver.”

“Krennic?” Organa says, her eyebrows raised. “Orson Krennic?”

“It’s his pseudonym.” He looks between them, uncertain how to proceed; perhaps the anagram is less obvious than he thought.

Organa nods once. “Alright,” she says, gesturing for the girl to fetch Torbin. “There’s a room prepared in the east wing you can use while we investigate your intelligence. If it proves correct, we’ll reconvene to consider your proposal.” 

The room he’s taken to is, for want of a better word, palatial. Its grandiose four-poster and huge bronze bathtub make it an incongruous tenure for the Commonwealth, but Hux supposes it does Organa well to have somewhere decadent to host dignitaries.

He draws a bath hot enough to scald, revels in the feeling of the soft towel against his skin, allows himself to enjoy the luxury of the silken bathrobe he finds in a nearby cabinet. Crafted in a sombre black fabric with red trimmings, Hux wryly assumes it’s also been recently requisitioned from the Order. He’s just grateful it isn’t golden.

The morning comes slower than he’d like. Hux sits awake on the huge, pillowy bed and barely sleeps a wink, watching the moon trace its leisurely way through the sky. He hasn’t seen Ben for seven weeks. He hasn’t spent time alone with him since the fuck they shared on the _Kilonova_ before Organa’s message first arrived. He cannot fathom why they so clearly perceive him as a threat, when Ben Solo himself had thrown away the chance to rule the galaxy at his side time and time again.

Unless, perhaps, Ben’s behaviour isn’t sufficiently showing redemption. Perhaps the bratty, misbehaving man they’d found in Ben wasn’t what they expected, and they’d turned to Hux’s influence as the blame. The idea that Hux might ever have encouraged him to behave like an overgrown child is palpably ludicrous, but he imagines the alternative – to accept that his salvation would take more than to simply trot back into their fold – would be repulsive.

He must have still been a boy when Snoke succeeded in luring him away. It’s possible that even before then Organa hadn’t seen her son for some time. Hux wonders if Ben Solo in all his insolence and pride and guilt and passion is as unrecognisable to them as he is to Hux.

“Rise and shine,” Poe Dameron cheerily says, rolling up the blind and slamming a cup of caf down on the table. Hux isn’t sure how long he’s been asleep; the sun is barely above the rooftops and his entire mind feels as though it’s made of soup. “C’mon, let’s get this over with.”

Hux forces himself upright, squinting around blindly for his discarded clothes. “What in the stars do you want?”

“I’m taking you back to Kamino,” Dameron bluntly replies, and Hux’s stomach drops.

Hux stares at Dameron, clutching his now-retrieved clothing somewhat feebly to his chest like some kind of scorned lover. “Where’s Torbin?”

“Reassigned,” Dameron says smoothly. “I’m your designated pilot, sunshine.”

Dameron is gracious enough to give Hux time to wash and dress, pacing around the bedroom like he has something to prove; Hux ignores him, dawdling with his toilet as long as he thinks he can get away with. As soon as he re-enters the main room Dameron thrusts a pair of cuffs in his direction. “Is that entirely necessary?” Hux asks snappishly, but Dameron doesn’t move, his smile sharp and unkind. “Fine,” Hux mutters, and holds out his hands.

It’s early enough that the palace is almost deserted as they make their way through the vaulted halls, Dameron’s clomping boots loud on the parquet floor. The underhand nature of his dismissal is churning unhappily in Hux’s mind, that he should come to Organa with such useful intel and yet still be sent back to his prison without even so much as a by-your-leave; but he’s known for a long time that they value his comfort very little indeed. He had hoped he might get the chance to see Réillata, but he’d been too prideful to ask for it and now has missed his chance. In truth, Hux isn’t sure he can blame them. He’d hardly be magnanimous in their position.

Dameron leads him out to the palace’s hangar bay, empty save for the same small shuttle Torbin had used to bring Hux here. Dameron gives a little salute to a figure in the first-floor window; Organa, Hux thinks, but she’s moved away before he can tell. The access ramp for the shuttle descends, and Hux finds himself wondering idly if Jae Lu saved him some of her excellent babaka parfait from the family dinner they routinely have the night before.

As soon as he puts one foot on the metal ramp, the world around Hux blasts into chaos. He’s thrown violently across the courtyard, landing hard enough to gut the air from in him, his teeth rattling in his skull. He lies there wheezing against the tile, distantly mortified by the indignity of it all, until he manages to shuffle up onto one elbow and begin the torture of sorting out which way is sky and which way is ground. He doesn’t think it was an explosion, he hasn’t got the tell-tale ringing in his ears, he doesn’t remember the sensation of clawing heat he’s felt before –

It’s Ben. Stood with his back to Hux, saber in hand, the air around him crackling with power. Hux staggers to his feet, casting wildly about for the threat, realises with no little confusion that the blaster bolts zinging at them are coming from Commonwealth guards in the upper windows. Ben deflects them with absolute precision, the sweeps of his saber elegant and clipped, and not a single one strikes a human target. Backed into a corner with saber in hand, Ben is defending him against no perceivable danger.

The guards stop only at a bellowed order from Organa, appearing suddenly in the entrance to the courtyard, her hair half-loose around her shoulders and her expression absolutely livid. Ben responds to his mother’s appearance by raising his saber en garde, and Hux’s dread multiplies tenfold as he staggers to his feet. He knows that pose; he’s seen it deployed a thousand times in battle, just before Kylo Ren cut down everyone in his path. If he does that here, Ben Solo or not, they’re both going to wind up dead.

“Ben,” Hux says, his breath still a little wheezy in his chest but the words still fierce and hard. “Enough.”

Ben turns. His eyes are wild and black, his expression a rictus of fear and fury; Hux cannot fathom what has possibly got him so spooked. The saber blinks out in his hand.

Ben waves a hand over the cuffs on Hux’s wrists, steps in close to smooth his thumb apologetically over the sharp marks they leave behind as they drop with a clank to the floor. “Hux,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse and cracked with sentiment, but before he can speak again the guards reach them and they are overwhelmed.

Hux is marched back to the same room and left there, the key turning audibly in the lock. He sits on the bed with the decanter of brandy and stares out at the rising sun, distant and unchanged. It’s midday before the door opens once again; Hux had expected Dameron with a gun, Organa with a scowl, but when he turns round from his vigil of the window he finds Ben, alone.

Hux feels a dizzy rush of disbelief, a knot of fear uncurling into desperation deep in the pit of his gut. He hadn’t imagined they’d ever let them be together, never mind in private. Ben falls to his knees beside the bed, pushing his face into Hux’s chest. Hux clenches fistfuls of Ben’s tunic and shuts his eyes against the onslaught of feeling, the ozone smell of his clothes and the warmth of his body and the familiar softness of his hair against his neck.

After what feels like an age, Ben pulls back far enough to look up into Hux’s face. “Hi,” Ben says, his grin somehow awkward and unabashed at once. “I said I’d come find you.”

“Took your bloody time,” Hux mutters back, a little wetly. “Where have you _been_?”

“Training,” Ben replies vaguely. “They were going to kill you. It came – I saw it. Just like back on Cantonica.”

Hux fixes his gaze out of the window, letting the knowledge roll through his system in a low swell of panic. He hadn’t thought executing an unarmed prisoner would be within the Commonwealth’s scope of operations, but Hux supposes he isn’t just any prisoner. He also hadn’t ever put any thought into how Ben had appeared as if by divine intervention in that grubby little cantina on Canto Bight. If he had, he’d certainly imagined something more orthodox than a sodding vision.

Snoke used to prattle on about what he had foreseen, but Hux had charitably interpreted that as strategising based off the Order’s frankly excellent spy network; the mystical alternative had been too much for him to bear. Snoke had claimed he’d prophesied Starkiller Base, that Hux’s greatest triumph had been plucked from the aether by his magic and granted to Hux as if it were a gift of Snoke’s giving and not the pure creation of Hux’s mind. He had claimed to foresee the corruption of Ben Solo, the downfall of the Republic, the rise of the First Order into magnificence across the galaxy. Hux had always frankly been sceptical that Snoke could even anticipate what he was going to have for dinner.

“You should have let them,” Hux says distantly. “For your sake, if not mine. I’m certain your friends see no future with me in it.”

Ben’s smile is humourless and frankly unexpected. “Too bad,” he says flatly. “I do.”

Something flutters deep in Hux’s chest. “I tried to kill you,” Hux says, incredulous. “More than once.”

“I know,” Ben replies.

Hux stares at him. “I was attempting to turn you,” he says shortly.

Ben grins. “I know,” he replies.

“I killed more people with a snap of my fingers than anyone else in the history of the galaxy,” Hux says.

Ben’s eyes are black as pitch. “I know,” he replies. His fingers trail down Hux’s neck, resting for a moment against his tunic above where he knows the starbird brand to be. “My mother said you think I’m weak,” he says.

Hux resists the fleeting urge to snort, followed inexorably by the less fleeting urge to throttle Organa. “They asked me what we are to one another,” he replies slowly. “I said you are a weakness.” He pauses. “My weakness.”

Ben looks up at him, big brown eyes full of feeling, desire and affection and longing all tangled up together on his face in a baffling, spectacular way. “And that’s true?”

Hux feels heat rise in his cheeks. “Don’t be obtuse.”

“Hux,” Ben murmurs, and Hux fists a hand in his hair and drags him up to kiss him, if only to shut him up.

Ben surges against him like a rising tide, shoves him back against the bed and claws at his clothes with fervour, with a desperation Hux doesn’t remember from before. He tugs the tunic aside to spread a hand on Hux’s stomach, soft and impossibly warm, and Hux shivers at the feeling, at the heady rush of pleasure even that simple touch gives him.

His mind and his body have been used and weaponised for as long as he can remember. For him and against him, always in pursuit of some nebulous goal. He can’t remember the last time he did this for the joy of it, for anything other than power. By the time Ben pulls back to undress, Hux is dizzy with lust. It isn’t helped by Ben, sat across Hux’s hips and looking down at him like he’s the be all and end all of the galaxy. Ben shoots him a grin, leans down to bite his way down Hux’s chest, and Hux finds himself incapable of doing much more than grabbing a fistful of the bedsheet and letting him, soaking in each sharp pinch of pain and the way it makes him feels so fucking alive, seen and wanted and known.

Ben peels his trousers down beyond his knees, mouths at the shape of Hux’s hardening cock through his underwear before they follow suit, shoved unceremoniously out of the way. Hux hisses through his teeth when Ben’s long fingers wrap around his dick, the contact too much and not enough, and then whines a miserable little sound as Ben dips down and licks away the mess already pulsing from the head of his dick.

“Fuck,” Ben murmurs, rolling the pad of his thumb in circles just below the head of Hux’s cock. “Look at you.” He’s biting his lower lip, swelling already from their kiss, smeared just a little with Hux’s precome in a haphazard way that is driving Hux absolutely mad. “Did you miss me?”

“Piss off,” Hux gasps, gripping desperately at the sheet and rolling his hips to make the most of Ben’s lazy, calculated motions. “Just because I haven’t been wallowing around _wanking_ – ”

Ben laughs at him, a warm, ridiculous sound that sets off some awful firework of happiness deep in Hux’s chest. He leans down again to take Hux into his mouth, keeps his eyes fixed on Hux’s as he does, and Hux swallows down hard on the desperate moan rising in the back of his throat.

Hux’s whole being is humming with lust, crawling through him with an intensity he hasn’t felt in longer than he can remember. He lasts a mortifyingly short amount of time before he gives into the urge to grab hold of Ben’s hair and take over the rhythm, speeding up Ben’s slow, wet bobs of his head to short, shallow thrusts. Ben holds himself still and unblinking as Hux fucks up in sharp, desperate, unsympathetic jerks of his hips, ungainly and crude, and Hux lets out a strangled sob at the sight. Ben looks fucking perfect, big eyes flashing up at him, wet at the edges from the effort of taking Hux’s cock into his throat, his other hand flat on Hux’s stomach, his nails digging into Hux’s skin.

They haven’t even taken off their shoes, Hux finds himself thinking hysterically as he notices the orgasm begin to build in the base of his gut. Ben’s pressing his thumb in a maddening, overwhelming way on Hux’s taint, sharp bursts of pleasure shooting agonisingly up Hux’s spine, and Hux can’t cope, can’t even dream of lasting another minute; he can hear himself panting, harsh, arrhythmic huffs of breath. Pleasure claws in ever-tightening circles at the base of Hux’s spine, until finally, shudderingly it snaps in a huge, overbearing rush and he comes, one endless rolling burst of feeling that Ben continues to suck out of him, pinning him in place with his flat hand and the calculated rhythm of his tongue against the head of Hux’s dick.

Hux is shaking and drenched in sweat and squirming against the bed by the end of it, each breath tugged at the edges by a high, keening whine. Ben eventually pulls away to press slick, messy kisses to the inside of Hux’s thighs. He tugs free the laces of Hux’s boots, eases him out of his shoes and trousers, watching all the while with palpable desire as Hux shudders his way through the aftermath above him.

“Come here,” Hux says hoarsely the moment he feels able, and Ben mouths his way lazily back up Hux’s chest to kiss him again. He feels wrung out, as though Ben has found some lifeblood deep inside and ripped it from him. Ben is hard against Hux’s hipbone, canting his hips for friction in a purposeful, unhurried way that makes Hux’s head spin. It can’t be enough, but Ben doesn’t seem to care, letting out a low rolling keen of pleasure and pushing his forehead into the crook of Hux’s neck.

“I missed you,” Ben says openly, voice split ragged on the words but utterly devoid of shame. “I looked for you – ”

Ben cuts himself off with another moan, and Hux has no answer he can give. He feeds his fingers through Ben’s hair, throws one leg inelegantly over Ben’s back to give him the crease of his hip to fuck into. Ben groans, bites hard on Hux’s neck and ruts against him like a teenager, like an animal, like the idea of anything more complex is utterly beyond him. The rhythm builds and builds, Ben’s movements choppier and irregular with every push of his hips, and Hux digs his heel into the small of Ben’s back and holds him hard and fast.

Ben comes like a crack of lightning, sudden and all-consuming, fucking it out against Hux’s skin with a tortured cry until he falls down on top of him in an ungracious thud that nearly winds the air from him. Hux wheezes at the impact; Ben grunts, a lazy recognition of his discomfort with absolutely no intention of complying.

Ben is still trembling, his heart beating hard enough for Hux to feel it against his own. The air around them is singing with emotion, and Hux can’t tell if it’s his or Ben’s, this rolling, endless desperation that makes Hux feel strangely as though his very being has peeled open like a flower.

The thought of returning to lonely Kamino is unbearable, but he has no choice but to follow Organa’s commands; and neither does Ben, as much as he might pretend otherwise. Sure enough, as if prompted Ben drops a kiss on his neck, rolls to one side, stretches hugely, and then heads lazily towards the bathroom. The realisation of his imminent departure brings a sour taste to his mouth that Hux can’t ignore, contentment simmering into anger deep in Hux’s gut. Ben returns a moment later, holding out a towel and the gaudy bathrobe. “Is this yours?” he asks, voice lilted with amusement.

Hux snatches them both, struggling to clean himself off while maintaining any dignity. “Off you go, then,” he says shortly; he can feel the weight of Ben’s gaze boring into him. “I’m sure your mother has given you your marching orders.”

Ben steps towards the bed, seizes Hux’s chin between his finger and thumb and forces him to meet his eye. “I didn’t come here for her,” he says calmly. “I came here to save your life.”

Hux snorts. “Congratulations,” he replies sourly, jerking free of his grip. “I suppose I shall just have to hope you’re also presciently aware of my next would-be assassin.”

Ben’s face darkens. “Would you rather I let them?”

“Frankly, yes,” Hux snaps. “Do you realise – ” he cuts himself off, his breathing momentarily turning ragged as he struggles to regain his composure. “You have everything in front of you,” he continues, his hands clenched in fists beside him on the bed. “And I had the entire galaxy in the palm of my hand.”

Ben regards him in silence for a time; then he sits down beside him, takes hold of Hux’s wrist, uncurls Hux’s fingers and kisses his palm where the livid imprints of his nails now sit. “Kamino’s only half a day’s journey from Scarif,” he murmurs, glancing up. “I can come visit.”

Hux stares back at him in wary disbelief. Surely Ben must know that Organa has been deliberately concealing the location of their offworld base from him. Hux would never have paired that icy hellscape with the sunny paradise of Scarif he saw in holos; but it fits with the lessons on climatology Hux remembers from the Academy. More importantly, it means Ben isn’t halfway across the galaxy, training in some mystical cave on a planet Hux doesn’t even know. If Hux returns to Kamino, Ben would be barely a system away.

“She won’t let you,” Hux says hoarsely.

Ben’s smile turns sharp. “I’d like to see her stop me,” he says flatly. Something flickers through his expression. “Do you want her to?” he asks quietly.

His immediate instinct is to sneer yes, to rip back his hands and send Ben from the room with derision; but in that moment he can’t bring himself to act with spite. All these years living alone, acting alone, ruling alone, submitting alone – he’s been so fucking lonely. And whatever happens now, whatever this is forming between them, at least they’d be facing it together. As General Hux and Kylo Ren they would likely have torn each other to shreds; but they are both different men now. The future is what they make of it.

Hux clears his throat, tries to speak, uncharacteristically stumbles on his words; but with Ben he doesn’t need to. Ben grins, this awkward gawky thing that would never have been seen on the face of Kylo Ren, and says, “I know.”

Ben is still there when Organa turns up at the door to Hux’s ersatz cell, clad in her usual semi-regal costume and a scowl. She’s expected, but on Hux’s request only the two of them are permitted in the room; Ben finishes plaiting his hair, kisses Hux’s cheek and then his mother’s, and shoots the two of them a look before he goes. Play nice, it means. Hux bites his cheek and resists the urge to flip him off.

“I still can’t grant you clemency,” Organa says the moment the door shuts in Ben’s wake.

Hux nods; he’d anticipated as much already. But he didn’t spend years of his life tediously negotiating with the Davin Maros of the galaxy to give up now. “Was my intelligence of use?” he asks.

“It was,” Organa concedes, her expression inscrutable. 

Hux pulls in a breath, clears his throat, resists with difficulty the urge to shift on his feet. “I will return to Kamino as you wish and continue my work with Jae Lu,” he begins. “But I have three requests. First, I should like to have permission to move to and from Naboo at my discretion.”

Organa smiles humourlessly. “You can visit the palace and your sister,” she says. “At _my_ discretion.”

It’s a tolerable compromise. “Second,” Hux continues, “I would like to be able to communicate privately with Ben. And to see him in person a minimum of once every four galactic standard weeks.”

“Let’s start at six,” Organa evenly replies.

Hux takes a moment to steady himself; he frankly hadn’t expected permission to see Ben at all. “Finally,” he says, once he’s certain he can speak without urgency, “I would appreciate some guarantee that I shan’t have to look out for further attempts against my life from your side.”

“There are plenty of people on _my side_ who aren’t under my control,” Organa points out flatly; Hux says nothing, uncertain of her meaning. “But,” she continues, pausing on the word, “I will dissuade those who are from acting against you.” She looks at him with narrow eyes. “Those are your terms?”

Hux nods. “Do you find them amenable?”

“For now,” she replies. Hux finds himself melodramatically overcome with the urge to throw himself onto the bed and weep; each one seems a kindness he hadn’t expected to be granted. When Hux regains his composure enough to meet Organa’s eye, the expression he sees is a mix of suspicion and regret. “He hasn’t been the same since I sent you to Kamino,” Organa admits quietly. “But I don’t like the power you have over him.”

Hux hesitates. “There is a difference between taking what is offered freely and stealing what is not,” he replies slowly.

Organa’s eyes narrow; her smile isn’t exactly kind. “And I suppose you’d have me believe you’re doing the former and not the latter.”

“It’s nothing he isn’t willing to concede,” Hux says.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she murmurs, her smile turning wry. “But I failed my son before by not trusting him,” she admits, moving towards the door. She pauses with her fingers just shy of the handle, giving Hux a long, calculated look. “It’s not weakness,” she adds. “The feeling he evokes in you. It’s the only thing that makes me believe you’re capable of change.”

“Welcome back,” Jae Lu warmly says, her head bobbing excitedly as Hux ducks in out of the rain. “I had intended to give you time to rest from your journey, but I couldn’t wait to give you the news.”

“The news?” Hux asks, wringing the water out of his drenched clothes.

“Please,” she replies, gesturing down the corridor with one long, elegant arm, leading him away towards their laboratory. “Was your conference with General Organa fruitful?”

“Up to a point,” Hux grants. He’s trying to ignore the squelch of his socks in his boots, the chill of his skin from the damp fabric, and the empty, sinking feeling in his stomach of having said goodbye to Ben on the landing strip moments before. It’s why he’s so spectacularly drenched; Ben couldn’t bring himself to pull away, and Hux couldn’t bring himself to order him to.

Zn Re is waiting for them in the lab, his head waggling with joy as soon as they enter. The wall of the xhemni pods looks entirely unchanged, but he has one out on the workbench in front of him, the opacity cleared and the lid opened. Hux doesn’t recognise the creature inside; it has the same mottled blue-grey skin but its skeletal system is clearly more advanced, four distinct limbs in the sprawling posture rather than the xhemnis’ stubby flippers.

Understanding dawns on Hux, and he looks up at Jae Lu in surprise. It’s a xhemni in its final form, the first Hux has ever seen. They’ve never achieved full-term incubation before.

“Well,” Hux says after a moment, his mouth curling into a small smile. “What now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so so much for reading and making it this far, i really hope you enjoyed!! you can find me [on Tumblr](https://alichay.tumblr.com/%22). comments and feedback as always hugely appreciated.


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